


The Sociopath

by roryuniverse



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Action, Angst, Dark, Drama, Emotional, Gen, Johnlock maybe??, Mystery, ReichenbachFall, Rendition, Suspense, a dash of Sherlolly??, heart-wrenching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-10-15 01:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 27,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roryuniverse/pseuds/roryuniverse
Summary: Follow the exciting life of the consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes as him and his flatmate, John Watson, try to catch James Moriarty, a consulting criminal who is only known to them as the "Invisible Man". However, it isn't long until both find out his true name, and the detective himself finds out his true identity. Things get turned for the worse when Sherlock comes up with what he believes a clever plan, a plan that he keeps secret, in order to beat the consulting criminal at his own game. But it could be that Moriarty has messed with the sociopath's mind. . . Which means he may be going mad. But despite all of this, and keeping this secret away from John, Mr Holmes is a restless man, and he will not stop at nothing until he has caught---and stopped--- the enemy(Dr.Watson, however, is less determined).With an IQ above average and being a highly-functioning sociopath at best, and a detective partner who happens to be a doctor at  his side, Sherlock is on a wild hunt in which the scent gets nearer. . . . But the trail is getting fainter every time he is one step closer.The game is on. . .





	1. The "Invisible Man"

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm new to this site! Decided to upload my work on here from Wattpad(user is MotherofPages). This is sort of my own rendition of the Reichenbach Fall, and I'm working on a sequel. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> P.S.: Keep in mind that I wrote this fanfic three years ago, and at that time I shipped Sherlolly. So there may be a bit of Sherlolly, and no Johnlock at all. I only viewed Sherlock and John as friends at the time, but as "close" friends, apparently. That being said, just pretend there is Johnlock and no Sherlolly. Be nice! I'm different now! xD

It was reasonably quiet on Baker Street, despite how busy that part of London seemed to be. People hurried or just simply walked off to work under the morning sun; some carrying a cup of black coffee without sugar due to their haste, others kindly asking for a taxi with a cup of coffee fully to their liking, thanks to not having to hurry. It was quite a normal kind of busy street, as it was always. That's if you're excluding the flat on this particular normal and busy part of London known as Baker Street: 221B. Inside of this flat, something was definitely out of the ordinary.

But not to the man who seemed definitely out of the ordinary himself. "Good morning to you too, sir!" he had said cheerfully before kicking his opponent back easily with a long leg. The opponent---an assassin wearing an odd-looking mask---had stumbled back out of unprepared surprise at the sudden lunge. He went down to his knees, groaning in pain after receiving another successful kick. "Run out of wits and strength already? How boring." the tall man commented, panting softly. He fixed the collar of his long, dark grey coat and straightened his navy blue scarf with quick, long fingers.

"Not that you had wit, anyway." he added.

Just as he turned around for a moment, the assassin had jumped onto him from behind, choking the taller man with his own scarf. But the man knew this was coming, for he had purposefully turned around. Using his leg, he kicked a shocked assassin in the weak part of his knee, which caused him to immediately let go. Turning around to face him, the seemingly intelligent, tall man hit the assassin's forehead hard with his own, which knocked the unlucky killer out cold to the floor. The man shook his head, as if trying to clear the pain that began to throb in his own forehead. With a triumphant smile, he stared down at the unconscious masked assassin before removing the decorative object that had so expertly hid his face.

"I should've known. Much too young to be an assassin, yet good enough for the job. Perhaps when you decide to come to consciousness and to your senses, you can tell me who sent you to kill me, hm?"

Straightening his scarf again and fixing his hair---even though this was at all no help; his black, curly hair seemed to be naturally untidy----he tied up the young assassin before dragging him over to a box and lifting him inside of it. He closed the box and casually took a seat on his couch, a book already in his hands, looking as if nothing ever happened.

A man looking about forty made his way to the flat 221B, wearing a black cardigan over an oatmeal-colored sweater and carrying a bag of groceries in each hand. He had put down a bag for a moment to open the door and picked it back up once more before proceeding to step inside. "Sherlock, I went out for a bit to get a few groceries." he had said.

"Oh, good. Nice of you to be back, John." replied the man whose full name was Sherlock Holmes absent-mindedly, not looking up from his book. "How do you mean?" wondered his flatmate, by the name of John Watson, raising an eyebrow. He was now in the kitchen, having placed the two grocery bags on the small table.

"How do I mean what?"

"How do you mean by 'nice of you to be back'? Were you waiting for me or something?"

Sherlock seemed a bit confused by this, but shook his head. "No."

"The reason I ask is because you sounded impatient. Or something like that." John said, having noticed the other's small confusion.

"No." Sherlock had repeated simply, still staring down at the book.

"Is that what you have been doing this whole time?"

"So what if I have?"

"Well, you can at least try to make yourself useful. Clean a bit, maybe. This is your flat, after all."

"Mrs.Hudson-"

"-is not your housekeeper."

Sherlock had merely shrugged in defeat, becoming quiet.

Sighing and shaking his head quietly, John Watson began unloading the groceries that had so patiently waited sitting on the kitchen table. It was unbelievably silent in the flat. Until Watson heard what sounded like a long sigh---the kind of sigh people sometimes make during their sleep.

"Sherlock, what was that?" the greyish blonde-haired man had paused by the refrigerator, one hand on the silver handle of the door, the other holding a carton of milk. Curiously, Sherlock Holmes stared up at his flatmate.

"What was what, Watson?" he wondered in a convincing innocent, yet irritated tone. John just looked at him, as if unable to believe that he hadn't heard the sound.

"That noise. Didn't you hear it? It sounded like a sigh."

Sherlock only gave him a look, an eyebrow raised, before replying, "John. You're hearing things."

"No. Honestly. There it is again, except now it sounds like somebody's yawning. And I know it wasn't you, because I'm looking straight at you."

The expression Dr. Watson had on his face suggested that he was beginning to get a bit suspicious. But Mister Holmes knew very well how to act in this kind of situation. Giving a very convincing aggravated sigh, complete with a roll of his eyes, he had such a piqued tone in his voice that John quite promptly dropped his suspicions: "For God's sake, John, shut up and just put up the groceries!"   
His flatmate became silent.

"And quit hearing things while you're at it," Sherlock added.

John nodded. "You're right. Sorry."

"Thank you. You were starting to bore me to death, that's why I almost lost it when I did." Ignoring this comment, a quiet John had finally put the milk away in the fridge. Still quietly, he began putting everything else away.

While his back was turned, Sherlock's eyes darted quickly over to the still box yet in which the sounds were coming from. The young assassin was beginning to come to consciousness. But Sherlock was not ready to question the boy about who sent him to kill the detective himself yet. He got up, approaching the box. He gave it one, good kick, which silenced the young man inside of it, and sat back down on the couch. John had by then now entered the living room, taking a seat next to his friend, a cup of warm tea in his hands.

"John." began Sherlock, thinking now was a good time to get answers from the assassin, now that he had come to once more; he could hear him(John was able to as well, but tried to ignore it, reminding himself over and over that it was nothing more but his imagination).

"Yes?" John answered, raising the teacup to his lips to take a sip.

"There's an assassin in that box over there. I lied: you're not hearing things."

John had just took a sip of the tea, only to spit it out at hearing what Sherlock just said. He set the teacup down on the coffee table near the couch and wiped his mouth before staring at his friend.

"What?"

"There's an assassin in that box over there." Sherlock gestured over to the box, which began to move slightly. John could only raise a questioning eyebrow at him, looking confused.

"Sherlock, maybe you should-"

"Oh, by the heavens. . . . Just open the box."

"The box. You want me to-"

"Yes. The box, John." Sherlock sounded impatient.

"Alright. . ." with a shrug, John got up and walked over to the box. He opened it and simply stared, blinking in confusion and surprise. There, inside of the box, was a tied up young man looking about sixteen or seventeen(well, at least to John).

"What's this, Sherlock? Decided you would kidnap older children?"

"I told you, John, he's a-"

"An 'assassin', right." John stared at him as if he had lost his mind. Or possibly half of his brain.

"I'm not an assassin, I swear et!" the teenager finally spoke, a strangeness to his British accent. "I'm jus' seventeen, will be eighteen in two months. I wos jus' wolking, right? And this man here, he snotched me up, he did!" Sherlock glared at the boy. "Liar."   
But the boy ignored him---looking at him---and continued, "I know who you are! You're thot psychopathic detective, Sherlock Holmes!"

"High-functioning sociopathic consulting detective." an irritated Sherlock Holmes corrected him flatly.

"Sherlock. This is completely unbelievable. What business do you have with an innocent boy? What, are you going to use him for one of your little interrogation games?"

Sherlock gave a frustrated sigh. "You don't believe me, do you? Well, it's quite obvious, even if you were not here to witness it."   
He had grabbed the mask, which was sitting on the desk, showing it to his flatmate. "Tell me, Dr. Watson: would an 'innocent boy' go around wearing a mask like this?"

"Well, maybe-"

"No. He wouldn't go about pulling pranks with this sort of mask," Sherlock had interrupted, "because it's much too suspicious-looking to be used as a prank toy, and at a mature age, the boy should know better, especially if he is what you call 'innocent.' Think, John, use your brain! If you look closely, you can clearly make out a few scratches on it. No doubt about perhaps two or three hours old, but definitely from a scuffle with a dog. Not just any dog, but somebody's dog. Judging by the scratches, it was a small one, and this boy was able to kill it before proceeding to kill its owner that stood in his way. If you actually take care to notice, the boy has a faint stain of blood on his shirt. You can safely assume that by this careful observation, he enjoys the shed of the blood of his victims on his clothing. Also, he is not seventeen, he is eighteen, and will be nineteen in approximately two weeks. And yes, he broke into the flat and attacked me. He tried to choke me; do you think he was roughhousing? Because choking is a way to kill someone. It is clear someone had sent him to kill me, someone authoritative, for he wouldn't have just decided to try and kill me on his own accord."

John could only stare at him, blinking a few times in the shocked silence that followed. He had almost forgotten he was best friends with the most inhuman, yet (possibly) the only greatest intelligent detectives in the world. Honestly, he didn't know what to say or do. The eighteen-year old's eyes had widened slightly.

"You really are a psychopath!"

"High-functioning sociopath, as I've said before. Now, tell me: who sent you?"

The boy's fake expression of shock faded to be replaced with a grin, and he chuckled softly.

"That is none of your concern Mister Holmes," he answered, his fake accent gone as well.

"Do not play this game with me, boy. I already knocked you out once, and I don't mind doing so again."  
The boy only stared him down silently, Sherlock doing the same. John could only look on, feeling as if he were faced with two dogs fighting, afraid of interfering and causing a commotion.

"Tell me, and I may let you go. . ." Sherlock had said quietly, still staring at the young adult.

"Alright. The person who sent me, his name is None of Your Business. Happy now?"   
The boy had managed to get out of the ropes, and he now stood up. Barely did he have time to even turn around when an impatient Sherlock shoved him forcefully into the wall. "Tell me. . . Now." he growled in a slow, threatening tone.

"Alright, alright! Just let me go for a bit!" the boy said, panting fearfully, his eyes widened to an astonishment.

"No. Tell me first. Or I'll choke you until you won't even be able to tell me anything." the consulting detective threatened, his blood boiling with his impatient anger. He had grabbed at the boy's throat, choking him a little. John Watson, who thought that wasn't such a good idea, opened his mouth to speak.

"Shut up, John." Sherlock had said before his flatmate could say anything.

John merely shut his mouth once more, doing as he was told, not wanting to anger him further.

The boy began to choke, trying desperately to pry the older man's hands away; but to no avail. "Going to spit it out?" Sherlock asked softly, as if he were speaking to a child. His head was tilted slightly like a curious yearling. John found it a bit scary, but he didn't say anything. The grip the tall man had on the boy's throat began to slack slowly. The boy took in a big gulp of air before speaking. "He never told me his name. He prefers that I call him the Invisible Man." he managed to say.

"Oh, is that so?"

"Y-yes. I swear it!"

"Oh, calm down, it's not that I don't believe you. Anything else you can tell me about this. . . 'Invisible Man'?" Sherlock's tone was lowered a little in a way that wouldn't frighten the eighteen-year old into not telling him, doing his best to sound quite patient.

"N-no. . . I'm sorry, but he wouldn't tell me anything! Just sent me to kill you, honest!"   
The boy was half scared to death.

"Hmm. . . . Clever man. Well, thank you kindly for cooperating with me, that will be all." Sherlock simply replied. Suddenly, he had grabbed at the boy's throat once more, choking him until the boy could no longer take it. The detective allowed his now limp body fall to the floor.

John's eyes had widened in surprise and anger. "Sherlock! What the bloody-"

"I had to. Even if I did let him live, his boss would've killed him anyway!" Sherlock snapped in annoyance. For a while, John was silent, realizing his friend had a point.

"Well. . . . What now, then?" he finally spoke, not noticing his voice had lowered; he was too occupied with feeling very anxious at that moment.

"Well, John Watson, isn't that obvious?" the tall, untidy-haired consulting detective looked down at the now dead young assassin, his expression mixed with determination and excitement. His flatmate watched him, a quizzical eyebrow raised.

"The game is on." Sherlock Holmes said.


	2. The Game Is On

A month had passed since the whole excitement with the eighteen-year old assassin. However, for Sherlock Holmes, the excitement had just begun. It was hard work, though---really difficult and hard work. Even though Sherlock loved a good, challenging case that got his adrenaline in a rush, this particular one of hunting down the mysterious "Invisible Man" made him frustrated.

It was 8:30pm in Baker Street, and for the most part---except for the cars or taxis that made the road busy and a few people whom walked on the sidewalks---it was quiet. In 221B, John Watson watched his best friend rather in a drowsy manner as he paced back and forth impatiently. It made the doctor sleepy just watching him walk back and forth, back and forth---it was like a rhythm that hypnotized him.

"Sherlock, would you quit that? I'm sure if you got some rest, you'll think better." he finally spoke, his tone of voice a bit tired. Dr. Watson was very certain he knew what he was talking about, being a doctor and all. But the only answer Sherlock gave him was, "Sleeping is boring," never ceasing his seemingly-endless pacing. Sighing with annoyance, John tried to focus his attention on something else rather than the pacing detective. It irritated him greatly; almost making him anxious, and was giving him the beginnings of a headache.

"Be quiet, John." Sherlock said quite suddenly.

His flatmate looked at him---in which his back was turned, staring up at the wall---with a questioning eyebrow raised.

"What? I didn't-oh, right. Don't tell me: I'm 'thinking', and-"

"No, not that. Your sigh. I don't care how annoyed and tired you are, I need to think, but you're interrupting my thoughts." John could've erupted like an active volcano at that moment, but he managed to stay calm and collected.

"Oh, and your thinking is disruptive as well. Quit it." Sherlock added, paying no mind to John's now utterly irritated and frustrated expression.

The taller man continued standing still, staring at the wall. For a moment, he noticed the nice detail of the design of the wallpaper, done by someone who must have been quite artistic. Not that it really mattered, though; he was only lost in thought and found himself noticing something insignificant to his eyes. But then, something hit him.

"Artistic. . ." he muttered to himself, his eyes growing wide and excited in realization. Hearing him, but not exactly catching what he had said, John looked at him with a puzzled look.

"What?"

"ARTISTIC! Artistic, John! Artistic!" Sherlock had spun around so quickly to face John, and gave him such a fright, that the smaller man was surprised he hadn't felt the coming of a heart-attack.

"What do you mean? What is 'artistic'?" he had questioned, his voice raised a little in frustration.

"Oh, it's elementary, my dear Watson. Don't you see? It's starting to make sense!" There was a gleam of great exhilaration in the man's grey-blue eyes.

"Well, if you can only tell me what is 'elementary', and what I obviously cannot see, it might actually start making sense to me." John replied calmly, getting irritable.  He was glad the consulting detective had stopped pacing around, but now he was all hyped up about something he himself was still quite clueless about. He just wanted to go to bed now, why couldn't he just sleep anyway? Sherlock had not answered his flatmate, but instead sounded as if he were speaking to himself, raising his hands to either side of his face. "The mask. The way it looked. . . . the art. That was the first clue!"  
He had grabbed the decorative mask that sat on the table, staring at it carefully before turning it over. He could just make out the tiny, neat writing written in black ink: The History of Art Mueseum of Baker Street, London.

"John." he said, turning his head to his best friend, who still had no idea what was going on and had begun to nod off.

"Yes?" John replied, shaking his head from sleep.

"We're going to a museum."

"What?"  
John blinked in complete astonishment, not believing what he just heard.

Ignoring the raised disbelief in John's voice, Sherlock simply said, "The History of Art. You do know where that is, right, Watson? You have been there on occasion, before we met; you should know."

"Well, yes. But Sherlock, do you realize what-"  
The doctor paused.  
"Wait. How do you know I've been there?" John raised an eyebrow. He had forgotten Sherlock's strange ability of being able to know where someone has been, or what they have done (apparently going so far as to identify a software designer by his "tie" and an airline pilot by his "left thumb").  
"Oh, come on, John. It's quite obvious, really: you wanted to try and forget about the war at the time, and so you thought looking at some art would do the trick at least a bit. The brain of an average human being is not that complicated to figure out."

John blinked, feeling a bit offended at being called average.

"Excuse me, I-"

"Quit your chattering and come on! There is no time for chit-chat just now. We've got to get to that mueseum!" Sherlock had grabbed his blue scarf, which was hanging on the coat rack, and quickly put it on in the style he usually did. He had also carelessly stuffed the mask into one of his coat's pockets.

"Sherlock, are you out of your mind? As I was trying to say before, do you realize what time it is? 9:00 already! I have been watching you 'think' for an hour, and it has made me absolutely tired. And anyway, you need sleep, too, even though you decide to ignore that fact. We can go tomorrow, let's just-"

"No, you can sleep later. And as for me, you know I never really sleep; I do not need it, at least not now. The museum will be open; there is a clue to be solved, waiting just for us. Ugh, why couldn't I think of this before?!" Sherlock's voice rose with a hint of a growl that seemed to be directed toward himself. Giving a long sigh, John knew better than to argue with him when he felt that he had finally scented the rabbit on the trail. Shrugging sadly---and giving the couch a rather longing look---he grabbed his cardigan and slipped it on before following Sherlock, who had already made his way out the door.

An eager Sherlock Holmes rushed down the sidewalk, as if in a hurry. He didn't look behind him or wait to see if his partner was catching up. The location of the museum appeared like a map in his mind, so he had no trouble of searching for it. Meanwhile, John tried to catch up, despite how tired he felt. "For God's sake, slow down!" he panted, as he finally caught up with Sherlock, who had paused.

Sherlock didn't reply. He seemed too occupied with the building before him: the art museum. John stared at the building for a while before glancing over at the detective's expression. It wasn't really surprising to Watson that he looked absolutely delighted, as if he were a little boy on Christmas morning. Sherlock opened the large, fancy double doors(which, strangely, were not locked)and stepped inside, John following cautiously behind. "Sherlock, I don't think this is a good idea. . . ." he had broken the sudden silence that seemed to close in on them as they entered the museum. "Shut up, John." was all Sherlock replied with as he continued to walk. Still reluctant but not wanting to argue---especially in the eerie silence of the large, possibly empty building---John became quiet and followed his fellow flatmate.

It was quiet in the History of Art Museum. In fact, so quiet, that the silence rang in Dr. Watson's ears. To Sherlock, the utter quiet felt very strange; as if the two were not alone, and somebody was in hiding, just waiting. But John felt more concernerd about the doors being unlocked, and not even the slight sound of an intruder alarm had went off ever since him and his flatmate entered the building. The consulting detective and his partner had made their way down the hall of the museuem, their footsteps echoing on the smooth and white, marble floor. They passed rows of artefacts and what seemed like pieces of art done ages ago inside of glass cases. Many displays---of course, encased as well---were passed, too. Even though the art museum was full of interesting art and the feel of history, there was no way of letting go of the awful, suspicious emptiness that John felt in this place.

The end of the hall seemed to end abruptly to a large painting of the Starry Night. Under the frame was a white plaque that had information about the painting as well as its painter, Van Gogh. Sherlock, giving a curious expression , his hands folded behind his back, studied the painting.

"Sherlock, do you not find it odd how the museum's door was not locked, or how the alarm never went off when we entered?" began John, looking at the detective with a serious expression. But Sherlock seemed too occupied with the painting, now observing it more attentively.

"Or how the lights are still on?" John added, his voice risen just a bit to try and get the other's attention. "Oh, for crying out loud, John, you're just like a child: acting skittish and asking too many questions. I am too busy at the moment to even care, alright? Now hush." Sherlock had finally replied in a annoyed tone. Dr. Watson remained silent and instead had begun observing the painting as well. The Starry Night started to remind him of the couch back at the flat. The bluish black paint had reminded him too much of sleep, while the white, dot-like stars reminded him of peacefulness. The tired John began to nod off, but then quickly started.

"What does it remind you of?" Sherlock's question toward his sleepy flatmate had jerked him awake. "Oh, sleep-I mean, well, the night. Peacefulness." John answered, stifling a yawn.

"Right, then. That's what I thought. Quit sleeping. . . you can do that some other time." John had raised an eyebrow at his friend's weird response and opened his mouth to speak but then thought better of it, and instead became quiet once more. "This could be a riddle of some kind. . ." Sherlock had broken the silence.

"But how? You didn't get any clues about this painting," John pointed out.

"I just had a feeling that this particular painting has something to do with our Invisible friend, or a little clue, at least."

"So, you think this painting is a riddle to be solved to some kind of clue, little or not, because your 'feelings' are telling you, correct?"

"Basically. What else do you want me to do, walk around and enjoy the museuem? We don't have any leads. However, this is helping me think, and it might lead us somewhere."

John could tell by the look in his eyes that Sherlock was feeling desperate for some clues and excitement. He knew that once Sherlock Holmes was on the trail, the craving for the hunt began to rush into his veins so that he almost became insane with frustration of not getting close to the clue. John also knew that he was not at all a patient man.

Sherlock had taken out the mask from his coat's pocket and stared at it from front and back, desperately tryign to find some kind of clue.

"It doesn't make sense. .  ." he muttered to himself, raising an eyebrow as he continued to look at the mask. Vexation rising in him, the tall, dark-haired man looked back up at the painting.

"Well, you can't say that we haven't at least tried. Let's head back," John had suggested, really wanting to return to the flat to sleep. Like any other normal person would be doing at this hour. Sherlock turned to face him with an expression of exasperation.

"No, John. We are not stopping here!"

"But Sherlock, you're not getting any leads to this Invisible Man, so why does it even matter?"

"It matters because there is nothing to do and this is quite the exciting case. And I am quite the restless man."

"You are also a drama queen. . . ." John wanted to say, but he kept it to himself.

"And I am not a drama queen." Sherlock added, as if reading John's thoughts. His flatmate stared at him as if he was going mad(more than he usually did).

"What are you-"

"I know you didn't say that. I just had the feeling you were thinking it. Were you not?"

Not wanting to start a row with the 'high-functioning sociopath', John Watson only shrugged quietly before finally speaking to change the subject. "Well, fine. If you want to continue staying here, wasting your time, then be my guest, Sherlock Holmes."

"And waste my time I will." Sherlock merely replied absent-mindedly, being too occupied with the painting. John sighed, but said nothing. The time seemed to pass by slowly for him. Sherlock had stood still like a statue, his eyes closed, and a hand on either side of his head. He was in his thinking zone, and Dr. Watson knew better to not interrupt him. John decided he would wander about the museum and look at the art and its history for a while. And try not to sleep.

As the still tired John slowly walked down a row of paintings on the wall, he heard a faint noise. He automically paused for a moment, looking about him. The noise came again, only this time less faint. When he quickly turned around to see if somebody was behind him---because of instinct---he was looking at a hooded figure with a mask on their face.

The hooded figure's mask was a bit similar to the young assassin's, except this one wasn't very decorative; just the color red. Like the color of blood. John wasn't sure what to do or say. He knew calling for Sherlock would most likely cause the masked figure to flee and escape. This could be a clue that may help Sherlock on his trail to looking for the Invisible Man.

"I know who you are. You must be one of the Invisible Man's assassins." John said in a low voice, trying to sound calm and collected. The masked and hooded figure said nothing; he only continued to observe the other silently.

"Where is your friend---the detective Sherlock Holmes?" the disguised man finally spoke, his voice low and just as calm, but it didn't sound at all like he was trying. In fact, it sounded rather creepy.

"That is none of your business."

The masked man laughed, a laugh that made John's skin crawl. "The protective type, are you? Well, seeing as you're here already, why don't you do me a favour and tell that boyfriend of yours that he has to come and kill me."

John blinked, his eyes widening slightly in confusion and astonishment at the sudden, simple reply. But he also felt annoyed at being called the detective's boyfriend yet again. For like the millionth time.  
"First of all, he's not my bloody _boyfriend_. And second of all, but why? And why do you allow your boss to do this to you?"

"Why I let him is none of your concern. And as for the other question. . . . I have my reasons. Now, go get Sherlock and take him here. Have him find me and kill me. And then he shall get what he is desperately searching for."

"You can't just expect him to-"

"Oh yes, I can."

And with that, the masked man turned and left. John felt  so bewildered that he wasn't really tired anymore. He turned and hurried back to Sherlock. He would be greatly excited, of course. But John only felt that this was some sort of trap, no doubt.


	3. The Masked Man

"Sherlock!" John called as he reached the consulting detective. Sherlock turned to him, looking quite annoyed for getting interrupted while in his "Mind Palace".

"John, can't you see-"

"There's a clue. I found a clue." his flatmate had interrupted him without even thinking. He wasn't so sure to tell Sherlock about the masked man now, but since he had already gotten the sociopath's hopes up, he might as well tell him. And it was clear to tell his hopes were up---excitement started to show in his eyes.

"A clue?" he wondered after a short silence, tilting his head slightly(John could tell he looked diappointed that he himself hadn't found anything yet).

"Yes. I met a man who told me that you have to find and kill him in order to get the clue."

John hoped that the hesitation that followed meant Sherlock thought this was utterly crazy; _kill_ someone? For a _clue_? But Dr. Watson knew him well, and killing somebody for a clue didn't seem much of a problem for the sociopath. Finally, Sherlock frowned and replied, "I thought you said you found a clue. . . ."

John also was really hoping that the detective would ponder at the fact that this man wanted Sherlock to kill him. Did that not sound the least bit suspicious to him?

"Well, technically it is, Sherlock. It shouldn't be hard for you." Sherlock paused only for a mere moment before nodding.

"True. Where did he go when you saw him? Show me." Sherlock said eagerly.

"Finally, a clue! I thought I would **die** of boredom if we never found one." he added a minute later, having great emphasis on the word "die". He was nearly hopping up and down on his heels now in excitement. John almost smiled at his immense eagerness, but still felt paranoid. What if it turned out to be a trap, as he predicted? He felt there was obviously no point in trying to persuade Sherlock that this man he is to kill could be all for nothing. The detective wouldn't listen; he was too set in his ways and when he made a decision, it was final.

John led his friend to the place where he met the strange, masked man, and taking him where he left. As they walked along, John noticed Sherlock glancing right and left, searching for the man, hs eyes clear with keenness. John heard him swear under his breath in growing restlessness. He hoped that they would find the masked man soon; Sherlock would possibly go completely insane if they didn't.

"Damn it!" John had almost jumped at the sudden sound of Sherlock's voice. "Watson, this is a complete waste of time! I don't think we are getting anywhere. It's like looking for a bloody cat!"

John had never heard his friend as ticked as he was now. And never had he heard such boiling impatience coming from his mouth. John guessed that Sherlock really was bored, and very agitated. He decided to stay silent though, only giving an apologetic frown in response. Not that the other needed an apology, anyway---through expression or not. Sherlock was, after all, just acting as a drama queen, according to Watson.

Suddenly, a soft chuckle slightly muffled was heard from behind them. Sherlock and John spun around to see the masked man standing there. "Oh, there you are. The famous detective, Sherlock Holmes. I see you've had a rough time searching for me, correct?"

Sherlock had taken a step toward the mysterious man, not giving him an answer but observing him silently. The man had tilted his head as he continued, "Don't really like to talk, do you?" Even though it was hidden behind his mask, Sherlock could tell by the look in his eyes and the sound of his voice that the man was grinning beneath it.

"I came for the clue. I came to kill you." the consulting detective finally spoke, his voice in a monotone; his grey-blue eyes still observing the other. John quietly looked back and forth from the masked man to his friend. He could not believe how serious the sociopath sounded!

_A sociopath indeed. . ._ he thought to himself with an inward sigh. Sherlock also looked quite calm: as calm as the masked man. The man walked towards Sherlock Holmes, whom watched him. John continued to feel anxiety rising inside of him. He hoped the man hadn't brought some sort of weapon for Sherlock to kill the man; worse, he hoped Sherlock would not kill him with his bare hands. But who knows? John knew. And if he knew anyone better, it was Sherlock. The sociopathic man was absolutely unpredictable.

"Fantastic!" the man had answered. I am glad that you can cooperate. Now-"  
He was interrupted by Sherlock, who had suddenly kicked him in the gut, shoving him to the floor. The masked man stared up at him with his blue eyes widened in confusion and surprise. John looked just as bewildered. The tall, dark-haired man stared down at him with an expressionless look on his pale face, putting a foot upon his slightly heaving chest. 

"Do you believe me to be stupid? " he said calmly, leaning down toward him. But the masked man's surpise faded to be replaced with a sudden laugh. "So you know?" he responded, his eyes showing that he was grinning beneath his mask.

"No, I didn't know. I simply figured you out. And anyway, it is quite obvious this is a trap. First of all, you waited for about an hour before showing up; it is clear that you have been watching me, waiting until I've let my impatience show. Then, once I've shown how frustrated I was, you came to me. Second of all, I can't just kill you and expect to easily get my clue, because then there would be a catch. There is _always_ a catch."

John felt himself flood with relief. He knew Sherlock was not an idiot and would figure this out, but the detective did such a good job pretending to be lured into the trap, that John began to feel anxious for a moment.

The masked man merely laughed again before replying, "Very well done, Sherlock Holmes! Too bad you don't have a better audience to show off your astounding deduction. . . ."

Sherlock had begun to feel irritated, pressing his foot harder upon the man's chest, whom winced in reply. "And too bad you don't have a better audience to watch you breathe your very last breath. . ." he said, a crazed look in his eyes. John had taken a step back, not wanting to get in the way of the sociopath at the moment.

"Tell me this boss of yours! What is his name?" Sherlock demanded of the man under him.

"The Invisible Man." Sherlock, looking ticked, turned his head toward his flatmate. "Why didn't you bring your gun with you? It could've have come in handy."

John gave him a look, and opened his mouth to defend himself, but Sherlock interrupted, "Don't answer. Jut whatever, it doesn't matter."   
He turned his attention back down to the masked man; the detective seemed to loom over him, casting a shadow on him. But the other still didn't seem intimidated. This began to change as Sherlock pressed down harder upon his chest, causing him to gasp for air. It was then that he knew the man valued his life, and was not yet ready to throw it away.

"Now, tell me the name of your boss!" he said again in a louder, more demanding tone. The masked man did not respond. This time, Sherlock grabbed his throat with a hand and began choking him, his eyes continuing to give him an insane look. John still stood a bit further away, watching silently with a frown. Well, what else was he supposed to do? Get in the way would absolutely be a bad idea, and worse.

Choking with great astonishment, the masked man managed to reach up to his mask and take it off. He looked about thirty, his hair a dirty blonde. "Alright, alright! I'll tell you, I'll tell you!" he said in a raspy voice, struggling beneath the tall man's foot. Sherlock let go of his neck, but did not take his foot off of his chest. Still breathing fast with a hint of fear, the man swallowed before speaking in a low voice.

"Moriarty."


	4. An Explosion Occurs

"Moriarty?" Sherlock repeated the man under him with a questioning look.

"Yes, that's the name---Moriarty!" the other replied, his voice still a bit raspy. "I never told you before, because.  . . He said he would kill me! He told me once I've lured you into his trap, I could go home. . . but. . ." here, the man paused, looking frightened.

"But what?" urged Sherlock, even though he figured what he would say. The dirty blonde-haired man opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly, a red dot of light shown on his forehead.

The consulting detective quickly stood up, looking around; John did too, feeling that anxiety rising inside of him. A beeping sound was heard. Sherlock Holmes began to realize what was going to happen even before it began.

"John! Run!" he yelled, running towards his flatmate. John Watson looked confused and only stood there. "But what about-" he couldn't finish his sentence because the thing that Sherlock predicted to happen, happened just then: one moment, the man, still laying on the floor, continued to look horrified with frightened, blue eyes, yelling fearfully, "Please, don't leave me! Please!!", the next there was a loud gun noise and he spoke no more. What followed after was complete chaos: a sudden explosion began to occur, a noise louder than the gunshot. Just as the great ball of fire came toward Sherlock, he had hurried toward John and grabbed him, rushing him quickly along and eventually out of the double doors just in time.

As the consulting detective managed to make it out, shoving Dr.Watson a distance away from the building and crouching down over him, hands over his head, the museum exploded; bits of glass from the windows flew everywhere, and a few bricks even rain down, but fortunately, not harming Sherlock or John. Thankfully, it wasn't as big as an explosion that it blasted the enitre museum into nothing but a fire, but nonetheless it was pretty bad, and the bulding, now caught on fire, was quite a sight.

The flames licked the air and was so hot, that Sherlock and John could almost feel the heat from where they were. The black smoke billowing from the building made the two friends cough. Sirens could be heard as two fire trucks began to come into view. Sherlock stood up with some difficulty, panting, as he stared at the building. "Watson, I think I figured out our first clue." he managed to get out, his voice sounding excited, despite of what just happened.

However, there was no response from his flatmate. Sherlock frowned in confusion. "Watson?" he called, looking down at him. The enitre time, after the sudden chaos that ensued, John Watson had a bad cough before passing out. And now, he was just beginning to try and come back into consciousness, his eyes only slightly opened to see a blury, pale figure staring down at him with what he heard as worry in the figure's voice(he couldn't tell what it was saying)and picking him up. He began to feel himself to go back into unconsciousness just as the faint sound of more sirens reached his ears. Then, after that, all he heard was a small ringing sound, and everything went black.


	5. Dr. Watson In The Hospital

"John." a faint voice seemed to call to John, urging him awake into the real world.

"John."  
The voice sounded clearer; he almost recognized it completely. 

"John-"   
Suddenly, a very loud noise---like an explsion---drowned out the third call of the familar voice. John Watson's eyes quickly fluttered open in great fear, his heart pumping faster in his chest. The voice belonged to his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. And he sounded as if he was in terrible danger! What happened to him? 

"John. I'm right here. Everything is okay."  
John turned toward the voice and saw the tall, pale man with curly, dark hair lookig down at him, hs grey-blue eyes expressionless; unreadable. "You're in the hospital. You were unconscious." he added, before his flatmate could ask. John was silent for a moment; he didn't know what to say. And then, it all came to him:  
He remembered the horrified man, the gunshot, and the explosion. He remembered being shoved out of the building in a rush. He remembered the consulting detective saving his life.

He looked around, as if making sure he was in a hospital. It was a small room, the walls a gloomy white. The floor was also white, though polished and seeming to look a bit brighter than the walls. A rather large window could be seen on the left, which looked down upon the busy street of London below. John noticed that the sky was dark; it looked about to be 2 or 3 P.M. He was aware that he was on a hospital bed, a tube connected to his arm that led to a morphine drip on wheels nearby. Sherlock stood by the bed, staring up at the white, blank ceiling, as if lost in his own thoughts.

"Sherlock." John began, breaking the silence.

"What?" the other answered, seeming to be more engrossed in his thoughts to give his flatmate all of his attention.

"You saved me. . . . Didn't you? I remember what happened, and you. . . . Saved me." John swallowed, fighting back the sudden oncoming of tears. He didn't exactly understand why he was close to crying. Perhaps it was because Sherlock was just such a sociopathic jerk most of the time, that John didn't think he cared about him much. Sometimes he didn't even feel that their friendship existed.

The sociopath was, after all, unreadable; it was like staring at a blank painting at a museum---nothing in the picture but white. It was hard to understand what the painting was about, or what sort of emotion you may feel, because it was just blank. And that's what Sherlock Holmes was: a blank, white painting, unintelligible and almost unknown.

"Oh, yes, of course I did. I couldn't just leave you there. You looked like a deer just staring into the headlights." 

"Yes, I know, but. . . . I didn't think-well, considering how you are-I didn't think you cared about me very much. . . ." John had had a difficult time letting the words out. He felt like a bloody selfish child once he did.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. . . ." Sherlock had responded quite flatly. John stared at him in utter surprise and anger, and opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock had interrupted him---now looking at him---as he continued, "but you are my friend, John, and sentiment is not found in the losing side when you are with me."

John grew silent. Did his ears decieve him, or was he only dreaming? Did Sherlock really just say what he thought he did? The sociopath, though as much as a jerk he was,  _did_ care about him, and he  _did_ notice thier friendship. John was not used, of course. He was not just somebody to follow Sherlock around on his mystery adventures, like a lost puppy would follow a little boy. He was there for another reason: because he was Sherlock's friend. And even though his voice sounded monotone-ish, John knew that deep down, he meant it.

"John." Sherlock said, interrupting his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"I am glad you are alive and well." he said, his voice having that monotone-ish sound again. John gave a small smile and nodded, laughing inwardly. Sherlock Holmes would never change, and he hoped he wouldn't. Of course, on most days, he drove him crazy, but he honestly wouldn't know what to do without him and his sociopathic atittude and intelligence.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I am too, I am too. . . ."


	6. "Like A Wild Goose Chase"

"So, what's this clue you figured out?" John Watson asked his flatmate, taking a sip of his warm tea. Two days later, after some good rest, he was free to go back to the flat, and Sherlock had never left the hospital; insisting on even spending the night in the hospital. The doctor thought he was a bit strange, but hadn't questioned him. Once back into the flat, Sherlock refused to go back out again because too many people kept questioning them on why they were in the museum building in the first place, and who had left it open anyway. Some even suspected the detective for the death of the masked man, who was found in such a shocking state, that not even the Scotland Yard could figure out who he may have been.

However, once---a woman, seeming to be the man's wife---found out that he was missing, she eventually found out he was dead. Reports said that she had hung herself upon finding out her husband's death. The world of London was in a commotion, and the streets seemed busier. In every flat, tellies were turned onto the news. In just about every place, almost everyone---even some of the children---read the newspaper. Whoever this Moriarty man was, Sherlock thought, he had caused a scene that would go on for quite a while.  
Like a trend.

And now, home at last on a rather boring morning(at least to the detective), Sherlock laid on the couch, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. John sat on the chair, both hands holding his mug of tea. "Oh, right, the clue. Well, I've found out that this Moriarty person is not too happy that we know his name now. The explosion of the museum was a warning. And now, I'm sure he will be just harder to find."   
John sighed, knowing what that meant.

"You're not going to give up, are you?" he asked, even though he very well knew the answer.

"Of course I'm not, John!" Sherlock had stood up on the couch, staring at the other with an insane look of excitement in his eyes.   
"This is like every single holiday in one package! The best case I've ever come across!"he proclaimed.

"Well, I sort of thought you were frustrated about having to chase this Moriarty around. I, for one, am feeling a bit tired of it. I almost died, Sherlock. You do realize that, right? You almost died. A man, who was happily married,  _ **died**_. Do you ever get the feeling that you may be playing somebody's game for their entertainment?"

"Oh, John. Quit being so paranoid, it's making you look more stupid." John raised an eyebrow.

"Are you saying that I'm-"

"Listen. This is no ordinary case, of course. This man  _is_ obviously playing this little game for his entertainment, but at the same time, wants us to find him, too. He's going to show himself soonr or later."

Just then, Mrs.Hudson had walked in; Sherlock was still standing on the couch, as if it was something that people usually did when having a conversation. "Sherlock Holmes, please sit down. I just sprayed down the couch!" she said, as if she were scolding a child who just tracked mud all over the carpet. 

"Correction, Mrs.Hudson: you sprayed it down an hour ago." Sherlock had pointed out, but he sat back down anyway.

"Oh, Sherlock, you and your silly deductions. . . . Well, I was just making sure it looked tidy in here. I think I might have a bit of a rest now. And please do not make a mess, Sherlock." Mrs.Hudson began to leave when Sherlock called, "Mrs.Hudson, do you mind-"

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear!" she had interrupted and called back, seeming to know what he would ask. The man merely shrugged, as if it hadn't mattered much anymore. He then turned his attention back to John and spoke in a low voice.

"John, you cannot tell Mrs.Hudson about Moriarty, understand? The catastrophe about the building worried her enough. In fact, no one is to know but us." John nodded, agreeing completely. Sherlock was right; the poor landlady looked almost shaken when she had learned that they were there when it happened. After that, she had begun to busy herself by tidying up the flat, hoping to take it off of her mind.

"You know, this is going to be the longest case yet, Sherlock."  he said. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, the longest case indeed. Hunting down this man will be like a wild goose chase. . . . "

But Sherlock Holmes was grinning excitedly. At last, Baker Street was no longer quiet or boring.

"Well, Im feeling a bit hungry, how about you?" John announced, as he set his mug down on the coffee table and stood up.

"No. You know me: I don't really eat."

"Oh, right." John walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Suddeny, he gagged, taking a step back.

"Uh. . . Sherlock." he called.

"What?"

"There is a. . . brain in the fridge. A brain."

"Yes, there is. What about it?" Sherlock had sounded absolutely calm, as if it was quite normal to have a human being's brain just randomly sitting in your fridge.

"Well, I sort of got used to the head being in here, to be honest. What did you do with it?"

"Oh, I threw it away. Had no more use for it."

John blinked a couple of times, looking away from the brain.

"You. . . . Threw it away?"

Sherlock, who had begun to flip through a newspaper in a rather bored manner, rolled his eyes and answered, "Of course I did, John. What else was I going to do with it? Play catch?"

"Well, I suppose you're studying the 'average' human being's brain now?"

"Basically." the consulting detective replied simply.

"Alright, then. That's just fine, um. . . . I just decided I'm not very hungry anyway. I think I had enough to eat at the, er. . . . Hospital."

"That was two days ago," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, I'm just not hungry all of a sudden."

Sherlock gave an expaserated sigh. "Oh, come on, Watson, it's just a bloody brain. It's not going to suddenly leap up at you and bite your face, for God's sake."

"Really, Sherlock, I'm just not hungry." And without further discussion, John Watson closed the refridgerator door with a disgusted expression. It was quite a joy living with a sociopath. . . .


	7. Moriarty

That night, when it seemed Baker Street was just a tad bit quiet, Molly Hooper, her hair done up in her usual ponytail but now wearing makeup with a bright smile, sat across from the man she had met yesterday. The two were in a pretty fancy-lookng resturant. After what had happened with the museum, it really made Molly feel horrified. Until she met this man, her fears began to melt away. He had messy, black hair and pretty, dark brown eyes. He dressed in a way that made Molly feel comfortable to wear anything casual around him. And his smile was perfect; it seemed that he was perfect for Molly. They shared some common interests, and though clumsy, the man---unlike Sherlock---had a good sense of humor and was quite the gentleman.

At last, she felt she was truly in love.   
She had begun to laugh as the other told her a joke.

"Oh, Jim, you're quite funny!" she said. Still smiling, the man, Jim, shrugged.

"Sorry, I  can't help but make you laugh. I just really think it's beautiful."

"What's beautiful?" she wondered, tilting her head.

"Why, your laugh of course." Molly had blushed, looking down with a shy smile. Jim chuckled lightly at her reaction before speaking again.   
"Well, I've got to use the loo. I'll be back, okay?" Molly nodded in response and watched him walk away, a stupid smile on her face.

The man entered the loo and stared at his reflection in the mirror, glaring. He was no longer smiling. The acting, at the moment, was over. He was unhappy. Very unhappy. That man he had to kill gave away his name to that bloody detective and his partner!  Well, at least, his last name. Thankfully, he wasn't stupid enough to tell that Molly Hooper his last name. She hadn't suspected who he actually was: a consulting criminal. She was very easy to convince, and seemed desperate enough to easily fall in love, Moriarty thought. In fact, she was pretty much an _idiot_.

But because Sherlock and John knew of his last name, he had to make things more difficult. He couldn't keep up this silly disguise for long. Besides, he quite enjoyed himself; playing this game of his with the two. And he intended to keep it up just a bit longer. Still feeling angry at the stupid man for giving away half of his identity and ruining the game a little, Moriarty growled and hit a fist on the sink. Luckily, nobody was in there at the moment but him.

Eventually, he began to calm down. As long as he kept up this game, the bloody detective wouldn't find anything else about him very soon. And a grin began to slowly form on his lips as a cruel idea came to him.

"Oh no, he'll never figure me out soon enough, no. . . ." he said in a low voice, shaking his head slowly.

"Because I am _always_ watching. And one wrong move, well. . . . I suppose he wouldn't like it very much if something bad happened to his little friend?" Moriarty chuckled softly to himself, feeling cold joy rising inside of him. His eyes stared back into his reflection with an insane look.

"He would not, of course. He would not. . . ."

It was the perfect plan: he would send a message to Sherlock Holmes, and would make certain that he got it.


	8. A Message On The Wall

"Come on, John, keep up! He must have left some clue here. It doesn't hurt at all to look in the most unusual places." Sherlock called back to his flatmate impatiently, but not stopping to wait for him.  
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were down in a dark alleyway. The consulting detective had been bored out of his wits and couldn't just stay in the flat any longer. He decided that the best way to calm down his utter restlessness was to go out. John didn't want to go along with him, but he did anyway; seeing how even if he refused, Sherlock would _drag_ him along with him if he didn't. The two flatmates had snuck out---Sherlock made a plan of getting to the alleyway in hiding---somehow. John decided there was no point in questioning how they got there completely undetected. He learned that when it came to working with the sociopathic and strange Sherlock Holmes, it was safe to just go with it.

"But Sherlock, you don't know for certain if Moriarty did leave a clue in here. What if this is all for nothing?" John hated to sound so doubtful, but he felt that what he said may turn out true. Sherlock was very right when he said that chasing after this man was going to be like "a wild goose chase". John had by now managed to catch up with his friend, panting a bit for having to walk fast.

"And you don't know for certain if Moriarty  _didn't_  leave a clue here. Just shut up and keep up." Sherlock had replied, looking about curiously. The other just decided to be quiet from then on out, letting out a little sigh. Sherlock walked furher down the alleyway, where it seemed to get darker. He felt along the walls that felt a bit closer(which bothered Watson and made him almost feel claustrophobic for a few moments), as if they had contained some hidden lever that led into a headquarters or something. The darkness and silence had enveloped the alleyway. John had thought it would go on forever; it was such a long alleyway. . . When finally, it stopped abruptly to a dead end. The detective raised an eyebrow, feeling almost at a loss. John frowned.

"Sherlock, there's nothing here. Come on, let's just-"

"No, wait. I see something scratched in the wall. . ." 

His flatmate tilted his head and looked closely at the wall. He was right: there was something scratched in the wall---words. It must've been some kind of message, but to John and Sherlock, it looked like gibberish that read:

TGE NI YM YAW DNA LLI KMAE RESU OURY DNEIRF IESD

KCOLREHS

I MA ASYAWLA  GNIHCTAW

**NOE GNORW EVMO**

**STAHT LLA TI SEKAT**

"If this is some sort of message sent to us from that Moriarty man, then I don't understand it. I do know that the words may be scrambled." John explained, observing the message over and over. He looked toward his friend, who was silent and continuing to stare at the message blankly. He suddenly then took a few steps back. . . John thought he almost saw a bit of fear in his eyes.

"What is it, Sherlock? What does it say?" John wondered, continuing to look at him. He figured that, considering as intelligent and quick-thinking Sherlock was, he had already unscrambled the letters. But the detective was silent and didn't say anything.

"Sherlock." John tried again. Still, no answer. The tall man had backed away a little further from the wall and turned his back on John. He then slowly turned to look at his flatmate.

"All you need to know is that this is a dangerous game we're playing, John. And Moriarty knows it."


	9. A Dangerous Game

"IF YOU GET IN MY WAY

I WILL MAKE SURE YOUR FRIEND DIES

SHERLOCK

I'M ALWAYS WATCHING

**ONE WRONG MOVE**

**THAT'S ALL IT TAKES** ".

The message on the wall that Sherlock had unscrambled scared him more than it should. He shouldn't be afraid. He should be able to dismiss the words as if it meant nothing to him. He knew that, if Moriarty was hidden somewhere and watching, Sherlock would have to act like he didn't care. He had to act as his sociopathic self. John stared at him for a while, as if waiting for anything else he would say; as if waiting for him to say what the message said. But the consulting detective remained quiet, still observing the message over and over, as if he could somehow make them untrue and disappear(he had walked back up to the wall after some time). Silence seemed to envelope the two flatmates, like a wave quietly coming over a sleeping ship.

"John, we need to head back to the flat. Now. I need some time to think about this message, and figure out a plan." Sherlock had broken the silence, finally finding his voice as a flower finds its will to grow again. He then turned and began to head back to 221B, this time not caring if him and John got swarmed by attention. Sherlock thought it over and found that it would be best if they were to be crowded by the media and other curious people, who seemed to never let the whole burning mueseum thing pass just yet. After all, if that Moriarty man was lurking about, as he mentioned in his message, at least he wouln't get a very good view of them or try to walk up to them. But Sherlock just felt that the mysterious man was the type of criminal to be kept in the shadows and away from crowds.

John Watson hadn't questioned Sherlock, feeling something was wrong and reminded himself to ask his friend about it if they finally managed to get back to the flat. He followed Sherlock out of the alleyway and eventually down the street. Fortunately for them, though, Baker Street seemed like a quiet place at the moment; the sun had already gone to bed, the moon now in its place, casting silver light upon the streets of London. John looked up at the silver moon, noticing how pretty it looked tonight, and realizing how sleepy he felt. But he didn't feel that the moon in the night sky looked very pretty at the moment, and he had the feeling there was no time to just leisurely feel sleepy. He didn't know why, but something in that message must have spooked out his friend somehow, and it made him feel as if everything was not going to be okay right now.

_All you need to know is that this is a dangerous game we're playing, John. And Moriarty knows it._  
The words that Sherlock had told John earlier echoed in his head. Why didn't his friend just tell him what the message said? Did it have something to do with himself, and Sherlock was refusing to tell him to keep him from worrying? Questions buzzed in his head, demanding some kind of answer or explanation. But of course, no answer came. Sherlock Holmes continued to keep quiet about the message. John decided it was no use to even bring it up and ask again. The two finally reached 221B; it seemed it took longer to get to the flat---like Sherlock was being slow, which was unlike him. But John didn't comment about it. Sherlock headed straight to the living room, making himself comfortable on the couch. John had followed behind, taking a seat in the chair. Just like back in the alleyway, the flat was silent.

A quiet Sherlock had positoned himself so that he laid on the couch, his legs stretched out. John noticed he hadn't changed from his grey coat and scarf. He had entered his Mind Palace now, his eyes focused on the ceiling, as if it had all the answers he needed.  
"Need anything, Sherlock? I'm about to go and make myself a coffee." John had finally spoke(which had interrupted his thinking, Sherlock thought), standing up. "Yes. Black, two sugars. Perhaps it will help me think a bit."  
His flatmate nodded and left into the kitchen to make himself and his friend coffee. John hated the silence, but he knew that Sherlock needed it at the moment. It wasn't long until he had soon walked back into the living room, handing Sherlock a cup of hot coffee, the steam rising up from it. "Oh, just place it on the table." the consulting detective had said in a low voice, seeming to pay more attention to his thoughts. John set the cup down on the table next to him and sat back in his chair with his own coffee, his hands wrapped around the warm cup. He had noticed it was rather chilly in the flat. 

John Watson had taken a light sip from his coffee. Sherlock was now muttering something inaudible to himself, his eyes closed. "What was that, Sherlock?" John asked curiously, glad to break the dead silence that seemed to become loud in his ears. "Nothing. Talking to myself." was the detective's only answer. "Alright, then."   
The time seemed to drag on. . . John had by now begun to fall asleep, his head lulled to the side and his mouth open; his hands still managed to keep a good grip on his cup of coffee and keeping it from slipping and falling. Sherlock sat up into a sitting position, reaching out for his coffee and taking a drink(it had become cold, but he didn't seem to mind much). He looked over at his sleeping friend, rolling his eyes. Sometimes, he thought it was hard to believe that he was the one who he asked to help him with his work and to go on his "murder case adventures", as the man called them. Dr.Watson was quite intelligent, being a doctor and knowing a lot, but he could get boring and annoying. But the thought of losing him to that Moriarty man scared him more than ever. . .

Sherlock very well knew what that man may be capable of. After all, he proved this by setting a whole building on fire and killing somebody who was in it. . .   
And even nearly killing him and John. Sherlock decided that it was of the utmost importance that he met this man---even if it meant meeting him alone. Perhaps the consulting detective would have a better shot at trying to figure him out with a good deduction. But he knew it was quite impossible to meet Moriarty in person; the man obviously did not want to be discovered by Sherlock and his flatmate just yet. 

"You are quite the clever criminal, Moriarty. This is a dangerous game indeed." he said to himself, staring at nothing in particular. Taking another sip from his coffee, Sherlock stood up and quietly took John's coffee from him without waking him, and took the cups to the kitchen. As he set them on the counter, he sighed, shaking his head. "I shouldn't be too worried about what Moriarty may do---at least, not yet. I can't appear as weak. Who knows if he may be watching?"   
Sherlock felt that he was talking to himself more than ever since this whole case started, and found it odd to not talk about it to John. But he couldn't. He couldn't worry him, and he couldn't risk it. Sherlock didn't know why, but he felt that if his flatmate knew, Moriarty would be sure to silence him. The consulting detective felt that Moriarty wanted to keep this between him and the criminal. 

Sherlock had walked back into the living room and looked at John for a moment before turning off the light and heading off to bed. He didn't even bother to get into more comfortable clothing; he just chose to go to sleep in his long coat and scarf, ignoring how hot he felt. He hadn't fallen asleep yet but stared up into the darkness. After some time, though, he did fall asleep, and began dreaming of a figure only appearing as a silhouette to him and whispering the same message that he read on the wall that echoed around him repeatedly:

_If you get in the way, I'll make sure your friend dies, Sherlock. I'm always watching. **One wrong move. That's all it takes**._


	10. The Despair of Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock had woken up early the next morning. The nightmare he had the night before kept him up; he tried to pretend to sleep, but it didn't work. Eventually, he decided to wake up quite early: 3:00AM. A tired Sherlock walked slowly into the kitchen, his hair more messy than usual. He made himself a black coffee and soon sat down on the chair in the living room. The flat was dead silent. The kind of silence that Sherlock liked. It helped him think more. . .

And thinking was something he needed at the moment. After taking a sip from his coffee, the consulting detective set the mug down on the table and laid in an odd position on the chair(the odd positions he laid in on the chair or couch helped him think better; it got "his blood flowing"): his head upside down over the edge of the chair's armrest, his legs stretched out in front of him. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes blank and distant as he thought hard about the dream and the message found on the wall back in the alleyway. Sherlock had reminded himself over and over that Moriarty was capable of anything.

_Anything_.   
The one reminding word echoed in his head as he continued to stare at the ceiling. What did this Moriarty want? Did he want Sherlock to meet him? Why did he waste his time sending assasins and a message to him? Why Sherlock Holmes, among the millions of people in London? The questions pecked at his brain, demanding an answer. But Sherlock had none. For once in his detective life, he was stumped: he had no idea. Suddenly, he heard something and quickly looked round and saw John, putting on his jacket. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"Work." the other had replied, grabbing his coffee, which he had sat on the desk for a moment.

"This early?"

"Yes, unfortuately. Duty calls. . ." John sighed, and headed downstairs toward the front door, making sure to give a wave goodbye to Sherlock before doing so. The consulting detective didn't question his flatmate and watched as he left. Once Sherlock heard the front door shut, the silence, which seemed to hide away for a while when John walked in before, had now come back into the flat. The restless man, after a few minutes, had stood up and began pacing about. Suddenly, he heard a faint sound coming from outside. It almost sounded like. . .   
A song.   
Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, headed out the front door quickly, as if in a hurry to know what the sound could be. Baker Street was as quiet as 221B; not even a cab drove by. Sherlock figured by the darkness of the sky that it wasn't even 4:00 yet. Maybe about 3:30---he hadn't been sitting inside very long, though it may have seemed that way. Now as he stepped out in the very early morning darkness, he heard the sound quite clearly: a song that sounded like the BeeGee's _Stayin' Alive_.

Sherlock, puzzled, curiously listened as the song played. He looked around, trying to find the source of where it was coming from. "Well, somebody looks seriously confused!" said a voice, giving a childish laugh.

"I am. Who are you. . . And where are you?" Sherlock asked, walking around now.

"Aren't we all confused? Being confused can be so boriiiiing! It's better to just dance instead. Don't you just want to dance when you listen to music?" the voice replied, not answering Sherlock's questions. The detective ignored this. All he knew was the voice belonged to a man, a man who sounded quite childish. . . And annoying. "Where are you?"  Sherlock asked again in an irritated tone.

"Come and find me." the other answered, and the streets became quiet once more---even the song had stopped playing. Without wasting any time, Sherlock walked down the sidewalk to look for this mysterious person, his brain working like the gears inside of a clock, wondering where this man may be. And then it hit him. It hit him so hard that he felt mad at himself for not thinking of it before: the voice belonged to Moriarty. It just had to. Sherlock decided that the best place he would find him was in the alleyway, where him and John found the odd scrambled message scratched in the wall. And so he walked to where that alley was, remembering the exact location instantly(it was no hard task to remember locations for Sherlock Holmes; he knew London like the back of his hand). As he walked down into the alleyway, he saw a sillhouette standing by the wall. Walking closer, he saw the shadowy figure more clearly: a man wearing a suit as if he were going to a meeting, his hair neatly combed, and a childish smile on his face. "Oh, hullo, Sherlock Holmes! I knew you would find me." he said in a friendly tone, as if he wasn't a soon-to-be enemy of Sherlock, but an old friend that hasn't seen him in quite a while.

Sherlock hadn't said anything. He was staring at the man, observing him, trying to deduce of what he had done and just exactly who he may be. But no matter how much he looked at him, no deduction came to him. This person was a man shrouded in mystery. "You're Moriarty, aren't you?" he finally spoke in a low tone. The childish man nodded. " _Ding_ _ding_ _ding_! We have a winner! The name's Moriarty, alright. Jim Moriarty. It's a pleasure to meet you!" smiling brightly, Moriarty held out a hand for Sherlock to shake. But the detective made no movement of shaking his hand in greeting, only looking at him with a serious expression. Moriarty frowned a little, shrugging, as he allowed his hand to slowly drop by his side.

"Not the shaking hands type, I see."

"You're a criminal." Sherlock asked. Though it sounded not at all like a question; he was certain the man was a criminal.

" _Consulting_ criminal."

After a long pause, the taller man asked the one question that had been bugging him: "What do you want with me?"

"Oh, nothing, just making an enemy." Moriarty replied casually, giving a shrug.

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're Sherlock Holmes! Always think you're the greatest around here. Think you can solve every case with your little friend, John by your side. I intend to break you. To burn you. Let everybody see who you really are." the childish man was whispering now; the smile had now faded away. He looked serious now. Sherlock only stood there, thinking of what to say.

"I know who I really am: a high-functioning sociopath. You will have no success trying to break me down." he finally spoke. Moriarty grinned darkly, leaning casually on the wall.

"Oh really? I suppose that message really didn't get through your thick skull. I knew this would happen. That's why I created plan B."

Sherlock felt his heart begin to race. "Plan B? What are you talking about?"

"I don't know, you're Sherlock Holmes. Think about it."

After some silence, the consulting detective's eyes widened slightly.

"John. . . What have you done to him?" he asked in a demanding tone, clenching his hands into fists.

"Oh, nothing much. . . But he is in the hospital. You might want to head over there. . ." Moriarty chuckled, giving the other a bright, cold grin.

"I'll kill you. . ." Sherlock muttered, now glaring at Moriarty. Moriarty merely laughed before growing serious and replying, "No. I'll kill  _you_. . . And not just kill you, Sherlock, but  _burn_ you. I'll burn the  **heart** out of you." his voice was low and dark, and he put emphasis on the word heart. 

"But you better not waste your precious time killing me, Sherlock. Hurry up and go see to your little friend. . . before he dies." he continued, staring at Sherlock, untimidated by his cold, hard glare. Sherlock began to slowly back away. After a bit of hesitation, he turned and rushed off to the hospital. "Bye-bye! I hope to meet you again, Sherlock Holmes! What a lovely chat that was. Would of been better with a bit of tea!" the consulting criminal had called after him, laughing.

But Sherlock ignored him, more bent on getting to the hospital to see if John was okay. He hoped that he wasn't truly in a hospital bed, harmed, but really just working. The way Moriarty acted, he hoped this was all just a prank to scare him. But part of him told him it wasn't. Sherlock had paused to quickly hail a cab. A cab eventually stopped, seeing him, and Sherlock quickly hopped in the back, telling him the location. In his haste and desperation, he only yelled the word hospital, but the cabbie seemed to know which one as he headed there.

Finally, the cab had stopped at the St.Bart's Hospital and, Sherlock, wasting no time, quickly paid the cabbie driver before hurrying out into the large building. He walked straight up to the front desk, staring intently in the eyes of the woman behind the desk, who looked a bit bored. Sherlock figured she had been at her job for over fifteen years, but there was no time to casually deduce people based on their appearances. He needed to see John.

"What room is John Watson in? I'm his flatmate. I need to see him." the woman looked up at the taller man looking at her. Sherlock could tell she noticed who he was. "Hey! Aren't you-"

"Tell me what room John Watson is in." the consulting detective interrupted, clenching and unclenching his hands in a restraining manner. "I'm sorry, sir, but you need to sit and wait, like everybody else is doing here. Just give me your name, and I'll-"

"No! Do you not understand what I just said?! I need to see him! Now!" Sherlock's voice had risen. People stared. But he didn't care. The woman behind the desk stared at him in shocked silence. After some time, she finally sighed, giving a tiny nod. "Alright, sir. But if you get in trouble, not my problem. Room 1176." Without further hesitation, Sherlock hurried on into the brown double doors and rushed down room after room, searching for number 1176. Nurses passed by him occasionally, and sometimes hurting and groaning people on stretchers were rushed by on squeaky wheels. It felt as if only sickness took over the place.

  
Sherlock finally found the room John was in and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. His heart thundered in his chest as he came nearer to the sleeping form of his flatmate. Sherlock stood at the side of the bed, looking down at him. His breathing seemed shallow, yet steay. A hand rested over his stomach. John Watson must've looked peaceful to others, but to Sherlock, he looked hurt. Suddenly, he had begun to slowly open his eyes. Sherlock felt relief flood him; he hated to see his friend asleep.

"Oh, hullo, Sherlock. . . Can't you believe it? I'm in the hospital again." John chuckled lightly in a rather hoarse voice. "I'm supposed to be a doctor, and I'm the patient. Again."

Sherlock didn't laugh. The joke made him even more worried for his friend.

"What happened?" the detective dreaded asking the question, but he needed to know.

"Well, I was just going to work, when somebody suddenly stabbed me. I never got to see who it was because he was gone just as he came. But all I remember is he had a grin on his face. . .  Like it was all just a fun game to him." Sherlock was now staring at nothing in particular. "Moriarty. . ." he muttered coldly, his lips twitching slightly in a snarl. John looked confused, not quite catching the word.

"Who?"

"Nevermind. Anyway, are you going to be alright, John?"

"Yeah. I'm sure, as a doctor, I may be able to fix myself."

"John. I'm serious. This is not a joke. You just got stabbed."

"I'll be okay, don't worry. Just need some good rest, and the doctor has the other stuff taken cared of."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright. Well, I'm going back to the flat now."   
Sighing, the consulting detective turned and walked away.

"Oh, and Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Did you ever find that Moriarty man?"

Sherlock hesitated, wondering if he should tell him or not. To tell him that the mysterious man who stabbed him was, indeed, Jim Moriarty. But then he thought that John had enough to worry about. Sherlock decided that he would keep the progress of the case to himself for a while, at least until John is well-rested and healed. "No, I haven't."  
He then walked out the door. Sherlock made his way outside toward the cab, which was still waiting for him. The tall man had paid the cabbie driver enough so that he may drive him to the hospital, wait for him, and take him to his flat. "Flat 221B." Sherlock said as he got into the back.

"So, is everything alright?" the cabbie asked.

"Yes, my flatmate is-wait. . . I know who you are."

"You do?"

"Moriarty. . . How-"

Moriarty, who was the cabbie driver, chuckled. "Yup, it's me, alright!"  
He gave a pretend sigh. "I don't think a flat cap suits me very well. What do you think?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was quietly glaring at Moriarty. He had by now started to drive, heading to Sherlock's flat. "What do you want?" he finally spoke, his voice filled with anger.

"Oh, just forgot to mention something to you. And I might as well drop you off to your flat as I do so."

"And what's that?"

"Don't tell John about any of this: who stabbed him and that you met me. Let's keep it our own little secret, okay?"

"Why?"

"Must there _always_ be a reason?" Jim sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"What happens if I do?"

At this, Moriarty gave a cruel grin. "Then not only will I stab him again. . . I'll kill him."

"You wouldn't. . ."

"Oh, yes I would. . ." the other replied in a singsong voice.

"I won't allow it."

"Honey, if you think you can stop this consulting criminal, you're sadly mistakened. . ."

He had stopped by Sherlock's flat now. Sherlock got out, looking round at Jim Moriarty, who sat smiling at him in the cab, once more still untimidated by his glare.   
"Remember to not to tell John, Sherlock. If you don't take my warning seriously. . . I will stay to my word."   
Sherlock only stood there, clenching his fists.

"Bye-bye!"   
Laughing in that childish manner of his, Moriarty drove off. Sherlock stared after him, his heart racing. He felt something that he thought he would never have to feel: despair. Despair and fear. Fear for his flatmate. He knew that he needed to tell John everything about Jim Moriarty. . .   
But if he did, he knew that, despite how childish and utterly non-serious he acted, the consulting criminal meant what he said. Stabbing John was only a small warning. But if he didn't tell John, wouldn't he eventually find out? Sherlock feared this. He knew he could easily pull off appearing as not being the least bit suspicous, but after all that had happened, would he be able to?

Sherlock entered the flat and headed upstairs to the living room, feeling empty. He sat on the couch, staring blankly at the wall. For once, he was at a loss. John was in the hospital, trying to endure pain that probably felt like would never end. Mrs.Hudson had gone out to visit family somewhere in London(all Sherlock knew was that they weren't here on Baker Street). The flat was filled with utter silence once more. And Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, the incredible high-functioning sociopath, the one and only consulting detective, felt the emotion of fear, loss, emptiness, and despair mixed together. It was unlike him, Sherlock knew. But he also knew that this is what Moriarty wanted. He wanted to burn him. Well, he was succeeding.   
The consulting criminal was slowly burning him. Breaking him. Destroying him.

_No. I'll kill_ you _. . . And not just kill you, Sherlock, but_ burn _you. I'll burn the_ ** _heart_** _out of you._  
The words echoed in Sherlock's head as he laid on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He tried to block them out, but they gave no incline to go away as they continued to echo in his head, like the echo inside of a deep, dark abyss. Sherlock covered his ears, as if it may help to muffle the voice in his head somehow. He looked tired and depressed, bags under his eyes. But he refused to eat, to sleep, to move. All he wanted to do was think. Think of the despair he felt, think of how important John's safety was now, and think of how to find this consulting criminal's weakness.   
If he had one.


	11. His Mind Palace

_Sherlock Holmes, who continued to lay on the couch, now closed his eyes. If anyone saw him, most would think he was asleep; considering how quiet and peaceful he looked, his breathing steady. However, the consulting detective was not asleep. He had entered his Mind Palace._

_Sherlock Holmes stood in a silent, white room. A door had opened from behind him, and Sherlock was aware of somebody walking inside. "Oh. Hello, James Moriarty."  he said, before turning around to face the consulting criminal. Moriarty gave a big grin, laughing a little. "Oh, please, Mr.Holmes. . . Just call me Jim. We are good enemies, aren't we?"  Sherlock didn't say anything, but continued to look at him._

_"What are you doing in my mind?" he finally spoke in a low tone. Moriarty shrugged._

_"Just thought I'd have a bit of a tea and chat with my best enemy. . . **Why else do you think I'm here, Sherlock Holmes**?!" Moriarty's voice had risen, his eyes widening in an insane look. Sherlock had nearly jumped, but managed to continue to appear unaffected. _ _"You're trying to mess with my mind. Distract me from my thoughts; from what I'm trying to find." James nodded, giving a casual shrug. "Yeah maybe. I can't let you think up some kind of clever plan, can I? Besides, you're not the only smart arse in London. You have almost forgotten you've met your match. We're alike, you know."_

_"I'm nothing like you." Sherlock muttered, taking a step toward him, his hands clenched into fists. The room had begun to feel cold, and it seemed as if slight darkness had crept in. Still grinning like a satisfied child, Moriarty had begun to circle him slowly. Like a wolf circling a lost sheep. Sherlock never took his eyes off him, thinking if he did, he would let his guard down and look afraid.  "Now get out of my head." he added. But Moriarty ignored him._

_"Sherlock. The great detective, Sherlock Holmes. I wonder what would people think if they knew the truth of their hero?"_

_"I'm not a hero."_

_"Well, I have to say, I quite agree with you there. . ."_

_Sherlock ignored him. "What do you mean, the 'truth'?" he wondered, continuing to watch the other circle him._

_"That you're a **fake**." Moriarty emphasized on the word 'fake'. "I'm not a 'fake'. John and Molly Hooper knows. So does Mrs.Hudson. Whatever rumor you try to spread on London, it doesn't matter: because I have three people in the world who would believe me." Sherlock had said firmly, his expression unchanging. Moriarty simply laughed._

_"Aww, how adorable! Very nice speech." Moriarty gave a pretend frown. "Too bad your friends will never get to hear it; no matter on whether you decide to go with the deal or not."_

_"What deal?"_

_Jim perked up, his grin like a fox's looking upon its cornered prey. "Oh, you want to know? I thought you wanted me out of your head. I was just about to leave. . ."_

_"Tell me. What deal?" Sherlock repeated, his irritation and anger rising. He wanted to punch the grin right off James Moriarty's face._

_"Well, here's the deal: if you can convince everyone that you're a fake, and commit suicide, then your friends---and not just your friends, but every person in the world as well---will be safe."_

_The detective was silent for a moment. He felt the one thing that he hated to feel: fear. Fear gripped at his heart, covering the hope he was holding onto in the darkness._

_"Well, I'll let you think about it. By the way, this is all just in your head, but be prepared that I may bring it up to you eventually when we do meet in the real world. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes!" Laughing cruelly that made Sherlock almost cringe, the criminal turned and left out the door, strangely disappearing just as he opened the door. Silence filled the bright, white room. Sherlock couldn't believe it, but it had to happen. He did care for John, Mrs.Hudson, and Molly. Even DI Lestrade mattered to him a little bit. The tall man continued to stand in the middle of the spacey room, letting out a long sigh and running a hand through his dark curls._

_It was still a bit of a shock, but there was no way out of it. He had to do it. To save his friends---to save the world, even. Sherlock Holmes_ had _to die._


	12. "Molly, I Need You"

"Sherlock, I'm back." a voice called. The voice had interrupted Sherlock's thoughts, causing the white room to fade away as he left his Mind Palace and entered back into reality. His eyes quickly fluttered open and he sat up, watching as John walked into the living room. "Oh, good. The doctor released you?" he asked, standing up. "Yes. I feel much better now, but I can't push myself to do things. It still hurts a bit. The stab." Sherlock nodded. "Well, it's good that you're back. I've been a bit bored lately; no interesting cases, and my mind. . ." he hesitated. "My mind has been busy." John noticed the slight hesitation he heard in Sherlock's voice, but didn't question him about it. He figured if he asked, the sociopathic man would just avoid the question anyway. Sherlock was quite good at hiding his true feelings like that. If he had any.

"Well, I'm headed to the morgue." Sherlock announced, beginning to walk downstairs to the front door.

"What for?"

"Going to see if Molly has a new body for me to investigate. I have nothing to do, John, I'm utterly bored. It seems making deductions about a corpse is better than nothing." For some reason, John didn't know why, but he felt a bit suspicious. He felt as if his flatmate was up to something. . . But he didn't let his suspicions show. "Alright then, Sherlock. Have fun." John said, taking a seat on the chair with a slight grimace. The bloody stab in his side still hurt. Fortunately, it wasn't very bad, as the doctor told him(well, he knew that before the doctor had even said it; he was a doctor himself, after all).

Sherlock left the flat, hailing a cab. Once he told the cabbie where to go, the cabbie headed off to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Sherlock observed the cabbie, as if to make sure he wasn't Moriarty. Noticing it was not the consulting criminal whom had soon become his enemy, he felt himself relax in relief. He then shook his head slowly. _Of course it's not him, Sherlock. Quit being a paranoid idiot_ , a voice in his head told him firmly. Eventually, the cab had stopped at St. Bart's and Sherlock paid the cabbie before getting out and walking towards the hospital building.

It was a rather grey afternoon, Sherlock had noticed; it was about to rain. He entered the building, which felt slightly cold, even if the detective was wearing his trademark trench coat and blue scarf. It wasn't long until he had walked into the morgue to see the pathologist, Molly Hooper, just beginning to leave. She paused from walking toward the door when she noticed him there, almost jumping in surprise, but relaxing when she recgonized him. "Oh, hello, Sherlock. I was just about to go home, but if you want to see a body-"

"No, I don't."

"Alright then, what is it? Do you want to go out for a cup of coffee? Well, I mean-"

"Molly."

"Sorry, my mind, it's just-"

"Molly, I need you."

Molly blinked once, tilting her head a little. "Why would you need me for?"

"Remember that man I told you about?"

"Oh, the one who I stupidly dated? Yes, I remember him. Moriarty, right?"

"Yes. There is something I need you to help me with."

"And what's that?"

"Help me fake my death."

Silence filled the morgue. Molly honestly didn't know what to think of it; well, she would help Sherlock Holmes, of course, but to fake his death? She knew that if he had come to her about his plan of tricking the cunning criminal, then it meant that he hadn't told John. He didn't want his best friend in on the plan, or anyone else---only her. But why?

"Sherlock, I do want to help you, I really do. . . But. . . Why me?" she wondered, staring at him with confusion etched on her face. Sherlock had stepped toward her, looking down at her with his unreadable expression. "Because the one person Moriarty thought did not really matter most to me, is the one who does. You were always there for me, even before John. I can always count on you. And that is why I need you now." 

The pathologist felt herself blush slightly. But she shook her head, frowning. She had enough of this: of Sherlock constantly making what he thought as harmless deductions on her. Of course, she put up with it. She was strong. But what made him say those words that she didn't think he would ever say? His voice sounded like a plea; like he truly needed her, his eyes slightly clouded with. . . Fear?

Molly gave a sigh, shaking her head. "No. Just stop."

"What?" now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused.

"You know you're wrong. Everyone that matters to you---maybe even including me---really does matter to you. But not me. I don't count."

"Shut up, Molly Hooper. You do count. You always will." he stated firmly, not taking his eyes off of her.

Molly felt her cheeks heating up again. Tears threatened to come out of her eyes, but she managed to hold them back. She smiled a bit, nodding quietly.

"So, will you help me?"

Molly had nodded again before replying. "Yes. of course I will, Sherlock."   
She still felt shocked that the sociopath had told her that he truly did care about her. And that he needed her. And what shocked her even more, she thought she caught a smile on his lips. A sad, small smile, but nonetheless still a smile. For once in her life, Molly never thought she'd see Sherlock Holmes afraid. Afraid to send John into mourning of a death that wasn't even real, a death that was planned out---something that he didn't let John know about, to make the death as realistic as possible in order to outsmart James Moriarty.

"Good, I'm glad. We will go over the plan tomorrow; I need to get back to the flat before John becomes suspicous or something." Sherlock said. Molly nodded. "Alright. See you then." she watched as he walked away but then paused, turning to look at her.

"Oh, and Molly?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock had walked back to her. "Thank you."

Molly shrugged. "Oh, no problem."

"No, I mean it. Thank you." the tall man stepped closer to her, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Even though it was only a kiss of thanks, Molly blushed slightly. He then turned and walked out. She just stood there, watching him go, rooted to the spot, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to be leaving. It seemed as if everything happened all at once.

_Molly, I need you._

The words echoed in her head. He needed her. And she intended to help him.


	13. The Plan

Two days later, when the streets of London began to calm down from the museum explosion, Sherlock Holmes had hailed a cab and soon stepped inside of Bart's Hospital. It was late out, and it seemed quiet. John was not working tonight; he was at the flat, resting, allowing his knife wound to fully heal. Sherlock thought this was perfect because he was able to slip out without his questioning or suspicions. But he must hurry. His flatmate wasn't going to sleep through the whole night without possibly having a nightmare involving him, and waking up to see if he was alright. It has happened a few times ever since John was free to go home, so it was possible to happen again. Sherlock wondered if he kept having bad dreams based on the explosion, even though that was now already more than a month ago.

The consulting detective stepped into the cold, bland building. He wasted no time heading into the morgue laboratory, where his pathologist assistant, Molly Hooper, stood patiently waiting for him. Her expression was serious, but Sherlock, observing her face closely, was able to detect a hint of  worry in it.

"Sherlock, are you sure you want to do this? What about-"

"Molly. I need to do this." Sherlock's tone of voice was firm as he interrupted her concerned words.  The female pathologist didn't say anything. Instead, she nodded quietly.  "Alright. Well, you tell me what the plan is, and I will take action," she finally spoke, trying to sound determined. This is for Sherlock. . . she reminded herself. "Well, when I meet Moriarty on the roof-"

"But wait a minute, how do you know you'll meet him up there? You already spoke to him?" 

"Molly, that doesn't matter. What matters now is the plan I am about to explain to you."  
The detecive sounded impatient. Molly thought he looked angry, but not an impatient angry, or irritated angry.  More of a rather. . . different angry. She couldn't place her finger on what exact anger the man standing before her looked, but she knew it made her feel a bit nervous. What if this plan is all for nothing? That same thought came flying back, making a nest in her mind. She tried to brush away the thought, not wanting to think about that now. Sherlock needed her at the moment. He even told her himself that he did. She gave a tiny nod to Sherlock, deciding to be quiet this time and listen carefully to the plan.

"Now, as I was saying, before being rudely interrupted"---at these words, he gave a small, irritated scowl at Molly, who gave an apologetic frown---"When I meet Moriarty on the roof, after some chatting of his, he will tell me to jump off the building. To commit suicide. Because if I don't, John, Mrs.Hudson, Gavin Lestrade-"

"It's Greg, Sherlock."

"-they will all die. Not just them, but perhaps everyone there on Baker Street may die. Who knows? He's very unpredictable. He may even kill himself. . . And so that's where you come in, Molly: I need you to be ready to take the body once he's dead. There wil be other people in on this, and you will need to make sure that they make the dead Moriarty(that's if, he does end up killing himself)look exactly like me.   
Even though they are professionals, we cannot afford to make even the slightest mistake. In his stress, John may never get over the fact that I am. . . 'dead', and will possibly give my fake dead body careful obversations. You must understand that this process cannot take very long. After John is grieving and pulled away from someone---and that person will put John into sleep---you are to give me a dose to keep me unconcious at least for the time when I take the dead body's place. And, after all of this is over. . ." he trailed off.

"Yes?" Molly pressed on, though she had a feeling what he would say next, and it made her sad.

". . . I can't stay here, of course. I have to leave, far away. Even out of London, if it comes to that."

Silence seemed to take over the lab as Molly stared up at the tall man, her lips a straight, thin line. She loved the idea of working with Sherlock on this important plan, and the fact that he had come to her for it made her feel that she truly did count, but. . . .

He was going to leave after it all. And she hated that. Hated it more than she knew she would never be with him. Sherlock stared back at her for a moment before speaking, "Remember the plan, Molly. Be ready to take action when it's time." the pathologist nodded quietly and watched as the man turned and begun to leave. Suddenly, something came to her.

"Oh, Sherlock wait!" she called. He paused and turned his head to her with a curious look.

"I just wanted to know. . . And I feel that I need to. . . How do you know Moriarty is planning all of this?"

"He told me. In my Mind Palace."

"In your-" but Molly did not finish her questioning reply. Sherlock had already left. She just stared at the silent door, looking confused and almost anxious. 

_In my Mind Palace._  
Was Sherlock trying to say he saw a vision? Molly knew the sociopath very well, and she knew that he didn't believe in nonsensical things like visions. She thought that maybe he was going mad. . . That James Moriarty found a way to mess with his head. She sighed, starting to doubt this 'brilliant' plan of the famous Sherlock Holmes.


	14. A Failure Befalls

As Sherlock Holmes left the morgue and stepped into the flat, he thought about the plan. It was very clever, he thought proudly to himself, and may work. But a voice in the back of his head nagged at him: What if it doesn't, and Moriarty is just messing with my mind? He shook his head quickly, wanting to get rid of the lingering thought. It had to work. Otherwise, Sherlock, the incredibly intelligent consulting detective, wouldn't have thought of it.

"Oh, there you are. Sherlock, you were gone longer than I thought. What, did you end up having a row with the corpse Molly let you look at?" John's sarcastic tone of voice brought Sherlock instantly out of his thoughts; he realized he had just then walked into the living room, too caught up arguing with himself in his head that he had almost forgotten he had even entered the flat.

"Yes." he replied sarcastically back, knowing that if he tried making up an explanation on why he was gone for so long, Dr.Watson would only get more suspicous. And plus, it would shut him up. Of course, Sherlock was right: it did just that.

John decided to not queston him further, knowing his friend well enough to know that he was just a complicated, hard-to-understand sociopathic man who wasn't very interested in conversations or tea parties. Unless they were short conversations and tea parties that immediately cut to the chase, then maybe the sociopath was more than willing to sit and listen. It was just one of the many things John had to put up with living with Sherlock Holmes.

Silence seemed to envelope the flat as Sherlock made his way into the kitchen to make himself a cup of his usual black coffee with two sugars. "Sherlock, when did you say Mrs.Hudson would be back?" John had broke the silence. "Tomorrow." Sherlock had now walked back into the living room with his coffee, setting it on the table and sitting in his chair. John thought it was quite pointless to make himself a cup of coffee if he ended up not drinking it and allowing it to eventually get cold instead, but he didn't comment about it.

Sherlock probably made the coffee in thinking he would drink it, but probably thought of something important and was now trying to enter his Mind Palace. Well, his predicament ended up coming true: the detective had leaned forward in his chair, his hands steepled under his chin, and his eyes closed. John thought for a panicked moment that he wasn't breathing, but relaxed when he just could make out the slow, soft breathing coming from his nose. Does entering his Mind Palace involve yoga practise? he thought to himself sarcastically.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_As Sherlock entered his Mind Palace, this time he was in a court-like empty room. Not one person can be seen, not even a sound can be heard. Suddenly, as he stared up at the tall podium where the judge sat, he didn't see a judge. He saw James Moriarty. The strange man wore the fake, white wig as if he were really a judge in the middle of questioning the criminal. And his usual bright, childish smile. . . Sherlock admitted that it actually kind of creeped him out a bit. Especially knowing that that smile was the same one the consulting criminal wore when he stabbed John. . . . The same smile he wore when he first met him. . . Sherlock tried to look expressionless and calm as he continued to stare up quietly at the other. Moriarty merely continued his bright smile, unfazed by the consulting detective's hard stare, as always was the case._

_"Hullo, Mister Holmes! Glad for you to be part of this important meeting! Would you like some tea?"  
The odd, smiling man randomly brought out a cup of warm tea, reaching out as far as his arm would go to give to Sherlock. But Sherlock didn't accept it, nor said anything. As Moriarty frowned with a pretend hurt expression, slowly drawing his arm back, Sherlock could only wonder what it was like in his mind._

_"Don't want tea? Oh, well. . . . Guess the fabulous detective is just too good for a cup of tea." Moriarty rolled his eyes dramatically, taking a sip from the teacup.  
"Is there something you want that you must bother me in my Mind Palace again?" Sherlock asked firmly, ignoring Moriarty's flat comment. Jim blew on his tea, waited for a moment, before drinking it slowly until not even a drop remained in the teacup._

_Sherlock knew he was doing it on purpose to leave himself impatient for a response. He seemed to enjoy---what was that word Americans used for those who enjoyed randomly bugging others to the point where they got mad?---trolling._

_Finally, Jim had set down the nicely decorated teacup and looked back down at Sherlock with that same chilling smile on his lips. "Oh, right! Almost forgot why I was here. Just letting you know. . . Your plan is not going to turn out well."_

_"How do you know that? You're basically just a voice in my head. Your actual human body does not even exist in my Mind Palace at the moment."_

_"Oh, you say that, and yet you believed me last time when I told you that I'll be telling you to commit suicide?"  
Sherlock didn't say anything for a while. He was right, of course. Moriarty shook his head, clicking his tongue._

_"Shame that the great detective Sherlock Holmes actually relies on silly voices in his head in order to make plans that end up a waste of time anyway. Didn't know Mister Holmes believed in things like visions."_

_Sherlock was so angry that he wished to punch the criminal at that moment. But he clenched his hands in restraint, glaring hard at the other with so much cold-heartedness and bitter resentment, that Jim Moriarty could have flinched under his icy gaze like a cornered rabbit paralyzed with fear. But he didn't. He stared right back at him with that same childish smile, as if everything was alright with the world, and he was only having a staring game with a stubborn, full-of-himself child._

_  
"You could be wrong, you know. After all, you're basically just a figment of my imagination that found its way into my head. I suppose that's what happens to people who have become mad. They-" he stopped in mid-sentence, realizing what he said. Was he going mad?_

_Moriarty was staring down at him with a frown, but that frown slowly started to turn into a grin._

_"They. . .?" Moriarty wondered with a curious tilt of his head, his expression smug. Sherlock didn't finish his sentence. His anger was only building more and more by the second. After some time, he reached out for Moriarty, grabbing him by the collar, staring at him with an insane look in his grey-blue eyes. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! It seems our famous hero has become violent. . ." Jim said, seeming unfazed---not even surprised---by the sudden lunge. Even though the other had him in his grasp now(and his wig had fallen off to reveal his now messy hair, no longer neat), and seemed to loom over him with that piercing gaze, Moriarty still continued to look as calm as if everything was still alright._

_"I'm no hero. They don't even exist."_

_"Firefighters? Police? Soldiers? Are you saying they are not heroes?"_

_"They only try to protect others, or, in a soldier's case, fight for their country because of the human brain's reaction to emotions. It is almost like when mothers---animal or human---have the instinct to protect and care for their young."_

_"But what about friends?" Sherlock knew the criminal was talking about John. It was true, and Sherlock wouldn't deny it, that Dr.Watson was a hero in Sherlock's eyes. A hero because he decided to put up with him and his weird sociopathic self, a hero because he wanted to be his friend, not because he needed one. Sherlock believed that heroes didn't exist. . . But heroes like John? Well, they existed everywhere. But he didn't want to admit that to Moriarty. Doing so may result in giving away his weakness, even though this was just all in his head. Everything that was happening now in his Mind Palace was not happening in reality._

_"Friends are just there because most people prefer not to be lonely. Typical of the human mind."_

_"Are you saying John is not your friend, then?"_

_Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he continued to give the criminal a hard stare. Moriarty, who remained unfazed, continued to smile. It brightened when he watched the other's expression. Sherlock began to feel like he knew what was really going on in the real world. . . . Moriarty's question was clearly a hint at something._

_"What do you mean by my plan will not work?" Sherlock finally spoke in a low cold tone of voice._

_"Why don't you wake up from your Mind Palace and find out for yourself?"_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"SHERLOCK!!!"   
Sherlock left his Mind Palace to hear a loud, urgent call. He looked around, confused. He was standing on the roof of a tall building, his scarf and hair whipping in the wind. How did I get on a bloody roof?? he wondered to himself in confusion. When he looked down, he saw John staring up at him with worry and more confusion than Sherlock felt etched in his face. And then the puzzled consulting detective noticed something that John did not, who seemed too busy staring up at him in horror to notice: a little way away, a suspicious-looking man, who seemed just a normal, strange person to the people passing by(who gazed in horror an curiosity at the tall man standing on the building), watched John intently, his hand gripping something inside of his coat's pocket. He looked as if he were attentive and ready for a signal. And then Sherlock instantly knew.   
The mysterious man had a gun, which meant. . . .

"Oh, hullo, Mister Holmes! I'm glad you can finally get out of that stupid Mind Palace of yours."   
Sherlock turned to the voice to see James Moriarty looking back at him with that usual childish smile of his. "I knew you would think of that plan, so unfortunately I am unable to go with you commiting suicide," he continued. He paused for a moment, giving a sigh. "Such a pity, too, I thought it'd be quite interesing, but no. . ."

"How did you know?"

"Durr, I don't know, **_spies_**? Ever heard of them, Sherlock?"   
Sherlock ignored the sarcastic tone in Moriarty's voice.

"I told you I'm always watching. And I did mean what I said. Now that's out of the way, here's the deal: you have to murder me. And I don't mean a simple gunshot to the heart and call it a day, oh no. . . I mean shove me off the building in front of all those ordinary people down there. . . And watch as I fall to my death. If you don't, John dies."   
Sherlock was silent for a moment before speaking.

"So. . . You want me to kill you, in order to get people to no longer trust me, to resent me?"

Jim gave a pretend gasp, as if Sherlock guessed the answer to a math problem that nobody was able to but him. "Yes, right you are!" he exclaimed, nodding excitedly. Sherlock glanced at the man still standing a good distance from John, whom still paid no mind to notice him. He continued to stare up Sherlock with that horrified expression.

"SHERLOCK, WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE? ARE YOU BLOODY CRAZY?" John shouted, drawing attention; some people hadn't noticed the two men on the roof and now looked up, walking over, gasping and speaking to one another. Sherlock didn't answer his flatmate but instead looked back to Moriarty, thinking hard.

"Well? Do we have a deal, Mister Holmes? My life in exchange to save your friend?"

"Why are you so bent on making me look like the criminal?"

Moriarty frowned for a moment, staring up in thought before looking back at Sherlock with his bright smile. "Well, you were kind of going mad already, weren't you?"   
The other didn't say anything, only staring at him silently. He took a long deep breath inwardly and nodded slowly.

"Fine. I'll do it."

"That's the spirit! I have to say, it was quite fun messing with you. Too bad you don't seem very angelic now. . . And all this time I thought you were a good guy. At least, for John's sake."

"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second I'm one of them." Sherlock replid in a firm, cold tone. Moriaty frowned and gave a shrug. "Well, go ahead. Murder away," he chuckled.

His expression turned to pretend horror as he backed away from Sherlock. Playing along, the sociopath grabbed him and shoved him foreward toward the edge of the building. People watched and pointed, gasping in horror. Some even began taking out their phones, most likely calling the police. John seemed to know what was going on.

"NO, SHERLOCK! STOP!" Sherlock paused for a moment at the sound of John's voice and had begun to step back. James Moriarty was right: he was going mad. The consulting criminal knew of his anger. He knew that he wouldn't just do this to save John . . . He would be doing it to end Moriarty. The resentment for him grew; it turned into fire and rose inside of his heart. But he stopped himself. He couldn't do it. He didn't want his friend to think of him as a murderer.

_A criminal_.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, trying to think of what to do now. If he didn't kill Moriarty, then John would surely die. . . Suddenly, the sound that the consulting detective dreaded to hear, was heard: a loud bang. Sherlock quickly opened his eyes in widened horror as he watched his best friend fall to the ground, his ears ringing with the sound of the gunshot. The last thing Sherlock saw was the apologetic, yet victorious smile on the consulting criminal's face before blacking out.


	15. "John. . . Dead?"

When Sherlock woke up, he was still on the roof of the building. He had only blackened out for a second and now slowly stood up, his heart beating fast as he stared down at his flatmate in shocked silence. John Watson. His only friend,  _dead_. It was hard to believe. After all they had been through. . . . He was dead. Gone. But why? Of all people, why did it have to be  _John Watson_?

_  
_"John. . . Dead?" he said to himself in a low whisper, too shocked to realize his words were not properly said. He ignored the gasping and screaming from below. He ignored Moriarty, who stood behind him. He ignored the entire world, closing his eyes to shut it out if only for a brief moment. If only for a brief moment to make what just happened unreal. Maybe, just maybe, this was all just a big joke. Maybe John was actually alive and well. _But it isn't a joke. . ._ a sad voice reminded him in his head. He tried to push the negative voice away, wanting to push it so far that it fell off the roof. . . He wanted it to fall to its death, never ceasing to exist again. . . 

Sherlock paused his thoughts, thinking slowly about what he just thought: _fall to its death_. He had almost forgotten about the consulting criminal, James Moriarty. After being so focused on his friend's death, he had almost forgotten it was  _Moriarty_ who planned the death. Sherlock's eyes opened and he glared at Moriarty, who tilted his head at him.

"Oh? Noticed that little warning there? See, that's what happens when you have things  _your_ way and-" but he hadn't finished his sentence. Without even thinking, blinded by anger and grief, Sherlock grabbed Moriarty by the collar and pulled him toward the edge once more. There was no hesitation in his movement this time as he shoved the criminal off of the building, watching him as he fell. The loud commotion of screaming and sirens coming near could be heard, but the sociopath ignored it all. He stared silently down at the now dead body on the ground, watching as people cautiously stepped toward it in horrified surprise. 

And he was  _crying_. The consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, for once in his emotionless, machine-like life, was crying, his hair seeming to be more of a mess than usual, appearing as a mad criminal to the many eyes staring up at him with fear. Sherlock Holmes was not a detective, they were probably thinking. He was a criminal. A criminal all along. Moriarty probably planned this---he knew that, even if Sherlock hadn't went with the deal, he would kill John to get him to do it anyway. And he had succeeded. Now London looked upon him with fear and resentment. It wouldn't be long until it was aired on the BBC News that night and in the papers. Sherlock could just imagine the headline in front of the first page of the papers, flashing in dark, bold ink:  _Sherlock Holmes---Not A Detective._ Probably something more catchy than that, but the sociopath just knew it would be written.

Sherlock stepped away from the edge, turning away and walking down the many steps that led up to the top of the building's roof. Once on ground, without even caring of the stares of the many people and the police cars that had now come, an ambulance behind and its siren still emitting a loud wail, he rushed toward the still body of his flatmate and friend, John Watson. Tears fell upon John's face as Sherlock cried, not even caring if his emotions took a hold of him. This was his  _best friend_. He had a good reason to cry. Anger still surged through him as he glared at the dead body of James Moriarty lying below the building in which he shoved him off of. If it was possible to die twice, Sherlock would have killed him again. Suddenly, hands gripped both of his shoulders, pulling him away from John's body. That anger inside of him continued to grow and without thinking, he turned round on the person who pulled him away---a policeman---and shoved him off, going back to John again, his curly hair in a great mess. But the policeman grabbed at him again, commanding him firmly to sit still, but Sherlock didn't seem to listen. It was as if he had turned into a wild animal.

Blinded by that same rage and agony, Sherlock turned upon the man, struggling from his grip. The policeman shouted to two others, who ran up to help. Just as Sherlock finally got out of their grasps, backing away to the dead body of his friend, breathing hard, he felt a hand go for his pressure point and the last thing he saw was the blood of John on the ground as he went unconscious.

_You were kind of going mad already, weren't you?_

Moriarty's words echoed in his head before he blacked out. A cruel laughter, that had begun to echo as well, now started to fade as Sherlock finally allowed the darkness to take him. And this time, he didn't wake up a second later. And he hoped that he would stay that way.


	16. Broken

Sherlock woke up slowly. As his vision gradually came into focus, he was aware that he was laying on what felt like a piece of stone. Was he still on top of the building? But then Sherlock remembered: the plan a complete failure, John dead, and him finally doing what Moriarty wanted. . . . Shoving him off the building in his own anger to the criminal's death.

_John dead._

Sherlock still couldn't believe it. Losing John was like losing half of himself. It felt as if a worm was gnawing away at half of his heart, utterly content with getting rid of its hunger. That worm gnawing away at his heart was James Moriarty. James Moriarty, who possibly felt victorious as he fell to his death. Sherlock thought he had detected a smile on his face as he shoved him over the edge. And perhaps he really did see it. After all, the consulting criminal had won. The consulting detective had lost. As Sherlock looked around, he noticed he was inside of a jail cell. When he stood up slowly from the hard, cold mattress that was his bed, which felt more like stone and made his back ache, he heard the sound of chains rattling, and a weight upon his wrists. When he looked down, he saw that both of his wrists were bound in chains, his hands white and cold.  _Of course. To London, I'm a criminal now. . ._ he thought to himself without emotion. The people---who watched in horror as Sherlock suddenly murdered who they believed to be an "innocent" man----most likely also believed that he had hired some other guy to kill his own flatmate. Which all resulted into this: Sherlock Holmes was not a detective. He was a  _fake_. A criminal disguising himself as a consulting detective. A man, who was in fact, a psychopathic, consulting criminal.

_A fake._

The word bit at him, echoing in his head, as if to remind him bitterly what the people thought of him as. He stared down at his hands with fear in his expression. What had he become? He felt as if a strange animal he never knew about was caged inside of his heart and had finally broken free. " _What have I done?"_ he whispered low to himself in horror. He should be glad that he got rid of Jim Moriarty at last. He should be glad, even  _overjoyed_ that he was finally dead. But he couldn't. He couldn't feel that victory, because John was dead as well. Dead and gone, his body no longer in existence. For a moment, Sherlock wanted to believe there was a heaven. Because if anyone deserved to go to a place like heaven, it was John Watson. If anyone deserved to go into a special room and burn, it was Moriarty, and definitely _not_ John Watson. At that moment, Sherlock believed there  _was_  a heaven. But just this once. A heaven for John. He gave a small smile, shaking his head at his foolishness. It might have been foolish, but it was the only thing that kept Sherlock from only thinking about his flatmate's death. He also tried to think of what a triumph it was to send Moriarty to his death, sending him straight to where he belonged: to that special room to be burned.

_No. I'll kill_ you _. . . And not just kill you, Sherlock, but_  burn _you. I'll burn the_ **heart** _out of you._

The words that the consulting criminal told Sherlock when they first met echoed in his head. Sherlock's small smile slowly faded to be replaced with a frown as he remembered those words that once meant nothing to him. And now, they truly did mean something. Jim Moriarty may be burning in a special room, but he did manage to burn the sociopath before he did. And he just didn't burn him. But he burned his heart, too. He might as well not only burned his heart, but burned it from his body also. Sherlock knew it was quite stupid to be thinking of his internal organ in a emotional sense like any other ordinary human being would, but he was too broken at the moment to care. He just lost John, his only friend and flatmate. How else was he supposed to think?

_Broken._

Considering his despairing, lonely situation, to Sherlock Holmes, the word seemed to fit perfectly.

Sherlock Holmes, the broken consulting detective.

"No," Sherlock said to himself, shaking his head. "Not detective. At least, not anymore."

The term  _murderer_ seemed to fit more in the sociopath's current situation.

_Sherlock Holmes, the broken consulting_ murderer _._

_  
_Sherlock could've sworn the voice in his head was Moriarty's, and not his.


	17. Seven Weeks In Prison

Time seemed to drag by as Sherlock sat in the prison cell. He was lonely, except for when a man would come to shove food and water in his cell before backing away and walking off in a rather quick and nervous motion, as if the sociopath was some kind of dangerous animal ready to snap at anyone. In a sense, he was---at least to everyone in London now. Nobody no longer looked up to him. They  _feared_ him. It almost scared Sherlock to know that. As time passed by, Sherlock---seeing how he had nothing else to do but to mope around about John's death---tried to distract himself at least a little by counting in his head how many days he had been in prison. So far, twenty. On the twenty-first day, he woke up to find a cold bowl of cornmeal mush and a plastic cup of water waiting for him by the cell bars. But he ignored it. The consulting detective---well,  _murderer_ now, to use his own term----hadn't eaten very well ever since his time in prison. He would eat on and off. Some days he wouldn't eat at all, and this seemed to cause him to appear a bit more skinny, even more pale; his weight seemed to drop to considerable, yet unfortunate amount, due to his depression. Never feeling emotions most of his life, Sherlock never felt depression. Now he did. He at least drank his fill of water. He might have been depressed, but at least he made some effort to continue living. He knew it was possible to live without food, but not without water.

And so he slowly got up, the chains echoing inside of the empty cell, chasing away the utter, lonely silence. It was quite difficult to hold a cup of water and drink it, but Sherlock was still smart. He lost his heart, not his brain. He figured out a way to hold the cup up, lay his head back, and managed to tip the cup just enough for the water to fall into his mouth. He knew how foolish it might have looked to anybody who watched him, but it was better than leaning his head in the cup, desperately trying to lap up the water with his tongue. He refused to act like a dog. Everyone can treat him like an animal, but that didn't mean he would act like one. After he finished, Sherlock stood up and allowed the now empty cup to drop from his hands. He then slowly walked back to the bed, sitting on it, despite how painful it felt, and stared blankly out the barred windows. He couldn't really see anything, of course, but it was one of the things that kept him busy. Faint light slanted through the window's bars, promising a bright day. At least,  to the people out there, in London. Not to Sherlock, the criminal.

He hated being bound in chains. Hated it more than anything. But, the people thought of him as dangerous, out of control. . . .  _mad_. Another perfect descriptive word to add to his new vocabulary.

_Fake. Criminal. Broken. Murderer. **Mad**._

 The words echoed in his head, seeming to laugh at him, tease him.

_What about **insane**?_

A voice told him, sounding very much like Jim Moriarty. Sherlock shook his head, trying to get rid of the cruel voice. "No. . . Get out of my head." he said in a low, firm tone. But the only response he got was cold laughter, laughter that drove him even more mad. He clenched his teeth, jerking his head from side to side; he wished his wrists were not bound in bloody chains so that he may use them to help block out the sound in his head.

_Poor Sherlock Holmes. . . . Poor, lonely Sherlock Holmes. . . ._ the voice whispered, and Sherlock groaned, standing up and pulling at his chains. The laughter came again, this time louder, darker.

_You're not going mad, Mister Holmes. . . . You're going **insane**._

The word echoed loudly in Sherlock's head, even louder than the laughter, piercing his mind like a knife. He knew it was just all in his head. He knew he was only going mad; this naturally happened to humans who experience loss and go into serious depression. But it felt real.  . . so real, that the sociopath felt that he was actually suffering. And he felt that Moriarty was watching him suffer, that bright, childish smile on his lips, knowing he won. Knowing he broke the once consulting detective.

" _Get. Out. Of. My. Head!!_ " Sherlock growled, pulling at his chains again. He was tired and frustrated. If only he could sleep, he would feel at least a bit better. It'd be nice to clear his head. He laid back down on the cold hard mattress, not caring if it was uncomfortable. At the moment, as tired as he was, the mattress felt comfortable---it was far better than the Moriarty-like voice echoing in his head. Letting out a long, painful sigh, Sherlock closed his eyes as he tried to fall asleep. 

Still the days seemed to drag by. After what happened all those days ago, Sherlock figured that he would be kept in prison longer.

_thirty-eight. . . . thirty-nine. . . forty._ He counted the days in his head miserably, desperately trying to keep his mind occupied. Anything to draw himself away from the thought of John or allowing Moriarty's voice to enter his head again.

On the fiftieth day, while Sherlock was trying to sleep, he heard footsteps coming up to the bars. He slowly stood up, the chains quietly rattling, as he turned to look at who was standing there. Sherlock didn't say anything as he looked back at the person who was always,  to him, his arch-enemy. The man was tall; a little taller than himself. He held an umbrella like a cane, and his eyes, which seemed to be clouded with worry, stared back at him. The man shook his head sadly.

"Look what you have done to yourself, dear brother. Got yourself locked up. And I see you haven't been eating, you idiot. What do you think Mother would say if she saw your cheekbones sticking out more than they should?" Sherlock didn't say anything as he continued to stare at his older brother. Finally, he spoke.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" his voice was filled with contempt. The last person he wanted to see at the moment was Mycroft Holmes, his brother. Mycroft ignored his younger brother's rude behavior as he answered.

"Releasing you, of course."


	18. "Little Brother"

Sherlock only stared at his brother, feeling himself fill with anger and more hate. 

"Are you sure that you didn't just come to laugh at me and tell me 'I told you so'?"

"Sherlock, you didn't know Moriarty would turn around and just kill John. But yes, you do deserve a 'told you so', because I've tried to tell you on numerous occasions to not get yourself involved with that man, no matter what he says. I told you  _I_ would take care of it." 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before rolling his eyes. "You never told me anything. . ." he muttered.

"Well, that means you have been deliberately ignoring my texts, then." Mycroft sighed at his brother's utter childishness. He knew it was really not the time to point out how ignorant and stupid Sherlock was half of the time. Not after what he had gone through. Not after losing his friend. Mycroft barely knew Dr.Watson; he only really spoke to him when they first met, and after that, only a very few amount of times did they speak to each other---most of their small conversations involving his little brother, and Mycroft wanting to know how he was doing. Unfortunately, as the big brother, Mycroft cared a lot for Sherlock. Something he almost regretted from the start as a teenager, but something he knew was important. If nobody watched out for the idiot, he may end up doing stupid things and getting himself into trouble. He sighed again, but inwardly, as he stared at Sherlock, his eyes now softened. Looking at his brother, he saw him as a little boy again. A little boy with wild, bushy curly hair, his eyes innocent yet different from any other boy. And when Mycroft saw him as a little boy, it scared him. . . Especially to see him like this, ended up in a dark, cold jail cell, his wrists bound tightly to black chains that rattled hauntingly with every step he took.

He managed to keep away the tears that threatened to escape from his eyes. He couldn't let Sherlock see him crying. Crying about  _him_. It's not that he didn't want him to see that he cared, but it was rather 'natural' for the Holmes brothers to treat each other like sibling rivalries. After some awkward silence, in which Sherlock just continued to look at Mycroft expressionless(his older brother was honestly glad of that he was put in chains; at the moment, it seemed he would murder him on the spot if he didn't have them), the other man spoke. "Believe me, dear brother, I am just as shocked by Watson's death as you are." More silence. "Now come along, before I change my mind."

"Why? I thought you would enjoy seeing your brother locked up in a cell, living in his own piss. . ." Sherlock muttered, looking away with irritation. 

"If I enjoyed that so much, then trust me, I would have got you locked up in a cell a long time ago. Quit your foolishness. I am releasing you because you are my little brother, and I'm one of the only ones who know you did not kill John. I am your only hope, basically, of getting out of prison. If it weren't for me, they would probably have you in here longer than seven weeks." Mycroft had unlocked the cell door with a key and stepped over to Sherlock, taking out another key that was small and unlocking the shackles on Sherlock's wrists. He then took a step toward the cell door, looking over his shoulder at his brother, who, as he looked more closely, appeared quite thin. Mycroft would make sure the stubborn man would get something to eat, even if it meant forcing him to. He hated to treat him like a child, but it was how he acted sometimes.

"Are you coming or not, little brother?" Sherlock didn't say anything but, after allowing the chains to fall to the floor with a loud _clang_  that echoed throughout the small prison cell, and rubbing his wrists---relieved to be rid of the bloody chains, finally---he walked with his brother out of the cell. It felt sort of strange to be free. Especially because he still felt broken and miserable. Mycroft turned to look at Sherlock, seeing that little boy again. A little boy who didn't seem so innocent anymore, a little boy who had a fire in his eyes, a fire burning that made him appear mad.

_Oh, dear little brother. . . ._ he thought to himself with an inward sigh.

_What have you done?_

_What. . . Have you done?_


	19. A Life Without John

About a week later, Sherlock Holmes was back to normal. Well, at least, almost. He had begun to eat again---only because his brother kind of 'forced' him to---and started to look like himself again("If you do not eat, then I will send you back to prison. I can deal with a brother who has serious ignorant issues, but I will not deal with a brother who has anorexia," Mycroft had told him firmly. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and said, "Yes, Mum" in a sarcastic tone of voice, which his older brother dismissed as mere 'childishness'). Mycroft had allowed him to go back to his flat, but warned him he was under surveillance; a few cameras were hidden inside of 221B, watching Sherlock's every move, as if making sure he wouldn't go insane. Even though, as the sociopath pointed out, this was quite pointless, considering the fact that he was alone. And he was fairly certain that nobody would come knocking on his door. But Sherlock didn't care at all for the surveillance or being completely alone. Even though the whole plan was made by Moriarty himself and expected for all that happened to happen, Sherlock felt that he deserved it. Deserved to be shunned, to be frowned upon. Deserved to be feared. When he first entered the flat, he was honestly expecting to see Mrs.Hudson, and his heart felt warm at seeing the kind little landlady again. But she wasn't there to greet him. When he asked Mycroft where she was---and his older brother's expression softened a bit at seeing the hope in his younger brother's grey-blue eyes---he told him that she was at her own flat, and was not allowed to see him. This broke the poor consulting detective's heart. He realized then he would truly be alone.

  _"Alone is what I have, Alone protects me."_ was something Sherlock basically lived by before he had met John. And now that his best friend was gone, he felt he would live by it once again. Sherlock may have become back to normal in a healthy kind of sense, but he was not at all his normal self mentally or even sometimes physically. He wasn't very active. The depressed and still-in-mourning Sherlock mostly spent his time laying on the couch or chair, staring up at the ceiling blankly. Other times he would try to sleep, but then nearly break something---or harm himself---after having a nightmare that involved the grinning face of Moriarty. It worsened to the point where the man who controlled the surveillance system in Sherlock's flat and watched him told Mycroft to bring him something,  _anything_ to keep him busy. Getting 'special permission' to go down to the morgue and beat a dead corpse until he felt better didn't seem like a great offer. Sherlock refused to go anywhere, and 'preferred to mope about in 221B', as Mycroft called it. And the other reason was possibly because Mycroft was his 'archenemy', and he always gave him a look as if he had poisoned his tea. On one of the days in which Sherlock was going through his psychopathic fits after yet another dark dream, Mycroft had entered the flat, stepping into the living room, where his brother was sitting upside down on the couch, his eyes closed tightly. He looked like he was trying to pull it together, muttering quick, unintelligible words to himself. Mycroft let out a small sigh, feeling concerned to see him like this. The upside down part he could handle. But the mad part. . . . It almost scared him.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Sherlock-"

"Oh, how lovely, you have the kindness in your heart to visit your little brother, but you don't have that same good feeling to knock on his door before entering?" Sherlock had interrupted without opening his eyes. At this, Mycroft simply rolled his eyes, even though the other wasn't looking. "You very well know that I am allowed to enter your flat without asking for your permission; I practically change your nappies now, you do know that, right?" the sarcasm in his tone suggested that he was already annoyed by his little brother. Sherlock acted very childish sometimes(or, in Mycroft's case,  _most_ of the time). Sherlock didn't say anything. The silent response almost made Mycroft's annoyance fade for a moment---usually, the stubborn and childish man would instantly have a clever comeback. He wasn't at all the type to give up that easily. In fact, if he were to face God, he wouldn't give up his comebacks until he was the last one standing. It was something you had to put up with Sherlock. But not this time. This time, it was as if he lost his will to fight. No, it was not  _as if_ \---because he truly did. Ever since the death of John, Sherlock Holmes had never been the same again.

"I brought you something to keep you busy. Now quit worrying Watson, or you may give him a heart attack and create more problems." Mycroft had taken out a pack of cigarettes, handing it to Sherlock. "Just one pack, that's all. But enough to keep your mind busy." he added. But his brother didn't take it. He had opened his eyes now in what looked like in alarm and stared at him. "His name. . . The man who keeps watch on me. It's. .  ." but he trailed off. Mycroft hesitated, realizing what the name was that he had used. He gave a sad nod, sighing. "Yes, Sherlock. His name is Watson. Strange, huh?" but Sherlock didn't respond. He only stared blankly at the wall.

"No. There are hundreds of people with that name, first or last." he finally spoke in a flat tone.

"Well, if it makes you feel better, it was his first name. I always found that odd-"

"I don't care. Stop trying to help me. It doesn't work. You are supposed to be my archenemy, not Mother." 

A moment of silence crept its way into the flat. Usually, Mycroft would have said something like, "Shut up Sherlock, and just grow the bloody hell up", but not this time. This time was different. Mycroft couldn't get himself to say it. Not after all his little brother had been through. For once, Sherlock was his top priority, and as much as he hated to admit it, cared for him greatly. "Do you want the damn cigarettes or not?" he said instead, wanting to change the subject. Sherlock looked toward the pack of cigarettes, which his brother was still holding out to him in an impatient manner now. Still, Sherlock didn't take them, only continued to stare at them---in fact, he looked a bit suspicious. "I swear I did not manage to sneak a mini syringe dripped with poison inside of  each cigarette." Mycroft said sarcastically with a roll of his eyes. Sherlock didn't say anything, but finally accepted the pack, snatching it from his brother's hand. "And do you expect me to use them by conjuring fire in thin air?" was his sarcastic response. That was more like it: that was the Sherlock Holmes Mycroft wanted to hear. Shaking his head silently, he handed him a lighter. Sherlock had taken it, but not snatching this time. He then turned away from his brother(or 'archenemy' in his case), his back to him.

"Now, behave yourself, Sherlock." Mycroft said in a mocking kind of speaking-to-a-three-year-old way. "Now, behave yourself, Mycroft." Sherlock mimicked back before growing silent once more. Frowning with an irritated expression, Mycroft turned to leave. He shook his head as he left the flat, thinking how childish Sherlock acted when he never got his way or was being stubborn and hateful toward him. He realized that his younger brother seemed to appear more immature than usual. John Watson's death truly broke him down. . . .

Once his brother left, Sherlock just sat there for a while, his eyes closed. Once he began to enter his Mind Palace just to get away from the world----but only to see the dark, grinning figure of his enemy, Moriarty---the sociopath's eyes quickly opened. He stood up, looking at the pack of cigarettes and lighter, which he was still holding. He pulled out a cig and tossed the pack carelessly onto the couch before heading outside. Sherlock lighted the cig and took a long drag, letting out a sigh as he did so, whilst the smoke went into the cold, evening air. The man still felt depressed, broken. . .  _Lonely._  He felt as if the energy he once had as a consulting detective was drained from him instantly, leaving him empty. Like a flower without water or the sun. A wilting, energy-drained flower, slowly dying, it's once beautiful petals turning brown. That is exactly how Sherlock felt. And he was afraid he would never be the same again. How could he? Anyone who told him he would eventually would be wrong. If John was gone, so was he. All of who he was ceased to exist, like the beauty of that wilting flower. And  _nothing_ was going to change it. Nothing.

After a while, Sherlock had soon threw the cigarette on the ground and stomped it out before going back into his flat. He welcomed the absolute quiet that settled upon the empty flat. Indeed, for Sherlock, 221B was empty. . . . And not at all the same. Not without Mrs.Hudson or John.

_John._

Even thinking of his best friend's name brought back those horrid, dark memories that felt like only a mere day ago. 

_John. Dead. Gone._

Sherlock still felt that it was hard to believe he was no longer. . . . There. There for him. When John Watson stepped into his life, everything changed: Sherlock himself had even began changing, becoming more. . . . Human. Something that he wasn't very good at being. It explained why he cared for John those two times when he was laying in the hospital bed, refusing to leave his side, or when he immediately saved his best friend during the fire of the building. It explained why he went to Molly Hooper for help, counting on her and thanking her rather than making a deduction out loud about her lipstick. John was the reason why he changed so much, why he began to act more like a human being. Actually  _human._ But now that he was gone---the kind of gone that meant he was never coming back, meant that he was no longer part of the Earth---Sherlock allowed Emptiness and Darkness consume him, slowly turning the once consulting detective into himself again: an emotionless and robot-ish Sociopath. A Sociopath who would never be the same again. Not without his flatmate and best friend.

As a mourning Sherlock paced about his living room, as if lost in an unending maze or Wonderland, there came a knock at the door. Sighing in annoyance at the assumption it obviously may be his stupid brother, he walked toward the door. "Shove off, Mycroft, I don't want to see your-" but he stopped mid-sentence only to see that his assumption was incorrect. There, standing in front of him, her brown eyes filled with sympathy as she looked up at him, was Molly Hooper. "It's only me, Molly, not your brother." Molly corrected him, feeling uncomfortable under his gaze as she shifted her eyes nervously toward the right at nothing in particular. "Right, I knew that." Molly, who was expecting such a flat answer coming from the tall, sociopathic man, urged herself to look at him again. His face was expressionless and unreadable, as was always the case. She stood there silently, waiting for the consulting detective to start making a deduction about her hair, her new lipstick, or why she was no longer wearing a ring on her finger. But no deduction came from him. 

And Molly knew why: Sherlock had lost John, his flatmate and friend. "Sorry." after a few moments, Sherlock had added the word, apologizing for the flatness in his tone of voice. Molly only stared at him in surprise. "Anyway, what is it that you need?" he wondered. 

"Oh, nothing. It's just--I've heard about John, and---I just want to say that I'm really sorry. . . I-I wish that it never happened. . . And I'm sorry that the plan didn't work out, and I-"

"Molly. Why are you here?" Sherlock pressed, wanting to get to the point. But his voice didn't sound impatient or annoyed. It just sounded. . . . Lonely. Sad. Molly noticed the tone of his voice and his expression beginning to soften, as if he were giving up on being Sherlock Holmes, admitting to defeat to Depression. She also noticed he looked tired. . . . Exhausted. Exhausted and empty. It made her just want to cry, but she held back any tears. The poor man was broken enough. The last thing he needed to see was more melancholy. She took a deep breath inwardly before speaking.

"I'm just here. . . Here for you, Sherlock. If you need anything."

"I don't."

"Well, okay. . ."

It became silent and awkward again. Molly bit her lip, feeling stupid. Did she say something wrong? Was the words  _here for you, Sherlock_ not enough? Was he expecting more? Molly inwardly shook her head, shooing away the bloody questions that buzzed in her head. Of course it was enough. Sherlock was going through a very difficult time; of course he became suddenly quiet. _  
_

"But it would be nice if. . . You came to see me tomorrow. Maybe have a bit of tea." Sherlock finally spoke. Molly blinked at him once before quickly nodding.

"Oh, yes. O-of course! Well if you truly mind. . ."

"I do."

"If you're really okay with it.  . ."

"I am, Molly."

"Okay, I guess I'll stop by tomorrow, then?"

"Yes."

"Alright. And again, Sherlock, I'm really sorry. . . I know how it feels. . . To lose somebody you were close to. .  . My dad---he-he died, and-"

"It's okay." Sherlock interrupted. Molly allowed her sentence to stay unfinished, knowing he didn't want to hear it. Not with the state he was in. She decided to try and change the subject, looking him straight in the eyes as she spoke once more.

"You know it's not your fault."

"What?"

"John's death. It's not your fault."

"I never-"

"No. I know you blame yourself for his death, but I'm telling you, it's not. So please don't feel guilty." Sherlock looked down for a moment before staring back at her, letting out a small, soft sigh. "Alright. . ." was his only response.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. Don't." Molly said firmly, noticing the uncertainty in his voice. She easily knew what the detective could be thinking or read his expressions when he was in this state. He nodded. "Right. . . But, anyway, Molly-" he began, only to be cut off.

"You know that I'm here for you, Sherlock, so you don't need to feel lonely or depressed. So just-"

"Molly."

"Just don't let those emotions take over. I know I'm not your best friend, but-"

"Molly. . ."

"I-I'm. .  . just here for you, okay? Don't blame yourself, don't feel lonely, and absolutely don't feel-"

"Molly, listen."

"Okay, sorry, sorry. . .  I'm making everything awkward again. I should just shut up and leave, I know. Sorry." Shaking her head angrily at herself, Molly turned and began to walk away, only to be stopped by a large hand grabbing her arm. She turned to look at Sherlock. "Molly, wait." he said as he stared back at her.

"I should probably-" 

but her words were instantly cut off as Sherlock had suddenly leaned toward her, kissing her. And this time, not on the cheek. But on the lips. And Molly felt it was more than just gratitude. Soon he had pulled away slowly, a gentle hand on her face. After some silence, in which Molly blinked in shock, just staring at him, he spoke.

"Thank you. For everything."

"Why did you-"

"I had to. Because while John was my best friend. .  . Remember that you were always there for me, even before him. And I want you to always know that. You do count. A lot more than you think." 

The pathologist continued to stare at him silently before nodding. "I.  . . I know." And, for the first time in what felt like months, Sherlock smiled. The sociopathic Sherlock Holmes smiled at Molly Hooper. It was the most beautiful smile she had ever seen on Sherlock's face---and not the kind that formed on his lips when he was given a very interesting case to work on. Without even thinking, Molly gave him a quick hug before letting go, smiling back, and turning away. She waved a silent goodbye to Sherlock over her shoulder as she walked away. Sherlock didn't wave back, but he watched her leave until she was gone. He looked a bit surprised. He soon went back into his flat. _  
_

As Molly Hooper hailed a cab, she thought about the new Sherlock Holmes. The broken yet still improving Sherlock Holmes. It made her greatly sad to see him that way. Even the image of his first, real smile had begun to fade as she thought of the death of John and how Sherlock was taking it. And now, she allowed the tears that she held back flow out of her eyes. She cried. 

She cried for Sherlock. 

She cried for John.


	20. "Say Something"

 

Days passed by slowly for some, or quickly for others on the busy streets of London. Except for Sherlock Holmes--to him, the days seemed to just drag on purposefully. And while the days were normal to the ordinary people walking about out there, to Sherlock, they were not. Like most days, the sociopath stayed in his home, staring into space or smoking for about thirty minutes outside. There was a time when he almost smoked for half an hour, but Mycroft, who came to check on his 'progress' made him stop. There was a bit of a row between the two brothers, but nobody was really harmed. After that, Mycroft Holmes decided that it was best that his younger brother stayed in his flat, for however he wished---after the violence he displayed, he could be dangerous when provoked on the street. . . . Especially if he were to go into a pub and get himself drunk. Sherlock obviously didn't care; he didn't seem to mind staying locked in his flat, as if he were back at the prison again, only getting a cell with a comfortable place to sleep, good food, and even a telly. But at the moment, and for a while now since John's death, Sherlock had felt as if he were actually in prison. The comfort of the flat was nothing to him but pain. The food felt tasteless in his mouth. And the telly, of course, did not matter at all to him; all they ever spoke about on it was the 'shocking news of Sherlock Holmes actually a fake'.

"The telly can be quite tedious, anyway. I do not understand its purpose except to entertain people for money." Sherlock had remembered muttering to John once. _John_. As Sherlock sat staring up at the ceiling, listening to the soft rain outside Baker Street, the memory that bravely flashed in his mind made him close his eyes tightly, shaking his head to get rid of it. He didn't want to remember. The pain. . . . It was just too much. Sighing, Sherlock tried to focus on Molly and remember yesterday's conversation with her. Molly had come visit him for a cup of tea. He had began to like the pathologist. And not just like. But love. He wasn't sure if it was real, or just an act of the emotions because of his lonesome, depressed state, and desperate for somebody to fall in love with and kiss, but. . . . He thought it was possibly the latter. The conversation between them was unfortunately short, because Molly had began talking about John. Perhaps she had forgotten that Sherlock Holmes had really lost his mind upon the loss of his best friend. But he knew she didn't mean it---she was only trying to help. To be there for him.

_I'm just here. . . Here for you, Sherlock. If you need anything._

Molly's words echoed in his head as he slowly opened his eyes, now looking down at the coffee mug he held in his hands, looking down at the darkness of the black coffee, seeing a bit of his reflection. It reminded himself stuck in the darkness, lost, unable to find his way home. . . Those words used by Molly had begun to fade away as he stared into the darkness of his mug. Suddenly, he got a text, hearing a muffled ringing. An annoyed Sherlock drew out his phone from the pocket of his trench coat. Ever since the death of John, he always kept the coat on; even sometimes wearing the navy blue scarf. He didn't know why, though. Maybe it was just because he felt so miserable and. . . . Lonely. But he wanted to stay that way. After all, Alone was what he had now. Alone protected him. It did before, and it will now. He decided then that he would refuse anything Molly suggested to do---he'd rather be alone. He still didn't understand why he had feelings for her, or why he kissed her; even if he did figure it out, it still puzzled him a bit.

Sherlock looked at the screen of his phone, reading the text. It was from his brother. Usually, Sherlock would ignore his archenemy brother's bloody texts, but this one was important. To him.

**Hello, little brother. Sorry to interrupt your current Moping Session, but I thought perhaps you would like to visit your friend's grave today. Besides, some morning air may do you some good. However, you need some kind of disguise. Because while I'm allowing you out, that doesn't mean you haven't been forgiven and forgotten by everyone. Just wearing a hood should be fine. Molly Hooper will be at your flat to go with you. And please, Sherlock, don't make a bloody fool of yourself---just blend in. I sent you clothes that may be fitting for your disguise. -MH**

All of what Mycroft said---particularly the insults---didn't matter to Sherlock. Those weren't important. It was the words _visit your friend's grave today_ that brought him to attention. Of course, they had buried the body. That's what people did. Sherlock never really understood why. He found it pointless and a complete waste of time. However, this time was different. This time, his best friend was buried. Buried in a cemetery with other loved ones. Only one thought ran through Sherlock's mind: _I have to visit his grave_. The sociopath had immediately got up, hanging his grey coat and scarf on the coat rack. He then went downstairs and saw the neat package containing his disguise. After getting dressed, somebody was knocking on the door. He opened it to see Molly. The young woman stared at Sherlock, observing his new outfit. It didn't really suit his personality or current situation: black shirt with the British flag on it, blue jeans, and a black hoody. In fact it wasn't very well-suited for a cemetery visit. But Mycroft had said he needed something to blend in, and so that is what he found. Besides, nobody would be at the cemetery this morning anyway. And she felt they wouldn't be too long. Molly didn't say anything; only began walking with Sherlock, who had pulled the hoodie over his head, hiding his dark curls and half of his face. Molly sighed inwardly, wanting to see that pale face, grey-blue eyes, and curly hair. She wanted to see that real smile again.

It wasn't long until after hailing a cab and telling the cabbie their location that they were soon at the cemetery. Sherlock told Molly he wanted to be alone, and that he didn't mind walking back to his flat. The pathologist nodded her head slowly in understanding. She had put a gentle hand on his shoulder in reassurance before going back into the cab. Sherlock watched as the cab drove off and then walked into the cemetery. He searched for John's grave, ignoring the others. The other ones didn't matter. Finally, he came upon his flatmate's grave. His gravestone was dark and polished so that Sherlock saw his own shadowy reflection in it. The words **JOHN WATSON** stood out on it like long, black sharp knives. Sherlock heaved a soft, sad sigh as he stared down at the gravestone. He licked his lips before speaking. "John. . . I know you can't hear me speak to you, and I know I look absolutely foolish, standing here and talking to a gravestone, but. . . . I just want to say that you were my best friend. You helped me change, to become somebody that I thought I'd never become. You were there with me through every case. And even though half of the time you found me annoying, you put up with me. Because. . . Because you were my best friend. You cared. You taught me that Alone is not what I have. You showed me that Friendship can protect me, can change everything." He let out an empty little laugh, shaking his head. "I apologize if I sound so. . . gay, but it's true. And I want you to know that I care about you, too. That I do believe you're my friend. . .

"Because if there's one thing I learned from you, it was I don't have to be alone. But now that you're gone. . . " Sherlock trailed off, turning away from the gravestone. Giving another sigh that was slightly hushed this time, the consulting detective turned back to John's grave, his eyes glistening with the oncoming of tears. He stepped closer to the stone, putting a pale hand on its smooth surface. "John Watson, please prove me wrong. Please prove me and everyone wrong and let the world know that you're not. . . . Dead." His voice choked on the word _dead_ as the tears began running down his sharp cheekbones. His face seemed more pale in his depressed, mourning state. He had taken off his hood and leaned down by the gravestone, allowing the tears to keep coming. He didn't care if anyone saw him.

"I know I'm a jerk. I know I mess up. I know I can be so. . . Inhuman. But please do me a favor: don't. . . Don't be dead, John. Let this all be a bloody prank you pulled on me, just so that I can learn my lesson. Just-" he stopped in mid-sentence and began sobbing, a hand on the stone as he kneeled by it.

"Say something, John." his voice was cracking as he said them, continuing to sob.

"Say something." he whispered, his eyes closed, tears streaming down his face. A soft whimper escaped him as he knelt there. The light rain that had come and gone came again, now harder, but Sherlock ignored it. The cold, lonely rain that began pelting the saddened sociopath didn't bother him. At that moment, as the man slowly opened his eyes to stare at the name **JOHN WATSON** on the gravestone, its words blurred because of Sherlock's tears, he felt like giving up. Giving up on believing, giving up on life. How was he supposed to go on? Without John? Maybe he should die, too.

_Say something, I'm giving up on you._

_Don't be dead, okay?_

_Please just let this all be some kind of joke to get back at me. . . or something._

_Just. . . Just don't be dead._

The words echoed in his head as he closed his eyes slowly once more. He knelt there for a while, his hand still grasping the top of his best friend's gravestone tightly, allowing the rain to fall on him, shrouding him into darkness and silence.


End file.
